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HIRD 
EDITION 



J.tA.e^,^^^^^"^- 



Jayhawker Juleps 



A Kansas beverage that does not come 
under the ban of the prohibitory law 



THIRD EDITION 

Wilb about 30 additional pages 



By /Mf CAVANESS 



Juleps, juleps, Jayhawker juleps. 
Not the beverage sweet but dire. 

Running thru the gate called Two-lips, 
Strangely setting the brain on fire ; 

But a mixture for poor forlorners. 

Tinctured with poetic art. 
That turns the two lips up at the corners. 

Warming the currents of the heart. 



TRIBUNE PUB. CO. <D^^fey CHANUTE. KANSAS 



Let me but bring to woful faces 
Effulgent eyes, and radiant smiles, 

I'll turn to gardens desert places. 

And change long leagues to cheery miles. 






Atttlinr'a Note 

Poetry and Verse are not synonymous, the 
poetry uses the form of verse for Its ex- 
pression. Poetry appeals to the deeper 
feelings — inspires, elevates, arouses. Verse 
pleases, amuses and instructs, and may be 
the medium of philosophy and gradations 
of thought down to the simplest forms of 
speech. Tho humor is as elusive as happi- 
ness, the author of the simple verse herein 
set forth, faintly hopes he has not wholly 
missed the first to help the second. 



COPYRIGHT 1913 
BY J. M. CAVANESS 



©Ci.A347561 



When a book of poetry achieves a third 
edition the fact is noteworthy, and is a better 
tribute to the merits of the poetry than any- 
thing that can be written. 

As a general thing a bard finds that one 
small edition will siipply all demands, and leave 
a surplus that is embarrassing to him; and un- 
less he gives his books to the poor, or sends 
them to the heathen, they will be in his way 
as long as he lives. 

It must be gratifying to all who take an 
interest in western literature, as well as to Mr. 
Cavaness himself, that his collected poems en- 
joy a continuous sale, and the reason why they 
sell will be no mystery to those who read 
them ; for the Cavaness poems are helpful and 
encouraging, making life seem more enjoyable. 
And, this world being rather dull and gray, the 
man who brightens it up is doing real good. 

Mr. Cavaness's poetry is melodious and 
cheerful, easy to read, easy to sing, easy to re- 
member. There isn't a grouch in a barrel of 
it, and nobody can read his book without being 
braced up and encouraged. 

So I hope the book may attain many more 
editions, and that the author will have to build 
a sub-treasury to hold the receipts, 

WALT MASON. 



GIVE A SMILE. 

Just give a smile ; 
'Twill give the blood a richer hue, 
The eye a brighter brown or blue, 
And make your friends more kind and true; — 

Just try it ; 'tis worth while. 

Just give a hearty laugh. 
If you would expurgate the bile 
Of jealousies that life defile. 
And ailments various and vile ; 

Naught better can you quaflP. 

Just grive a loud guffaw. 
If you would feel within the thrill, 
That all the blue-hued microbes kill. 
And cures instanter many an ill, 

In liver, lung or maw. 



ETable of (BanUntB 

Kansas ._ _ 9 

Let Me Forget 11 

The Scarred Veteran 12 

The Crop That Never Fails 13 

The Standard Octopus 14 

When Ma Puts Down Her Foot 15 

Overtaxed ^ 16 

Tell Me Not 16 

The Optimist _ 17 

The Editor's Chair 18 

The Pessimist _ _ 19 

One by One 20 

The Tremulo Stop _ 21 

The Grouch -.-21 

Talking Thru a Wire - 22 

The Devil Smiled 23 

Kansas Forever 24 

When Big Folks Come - 25 

The Office Seeker 26 

See That Pharisee _ 27 

An O'er True Tale -. 28 

Keep a Stiff Upper Lip 29 

Do Not Chew Your Pill 30 

The Rxpansion of Woman 31 

It Has a Limit _ - 32 

I Would Not Be a Boy Again 33 

The Modern Siioam 34 

Since I Have Lost My Cash _ 35 

Bowels and Brains 36 

La Grippe - 37 

Invidus - 38 

Next to Nature's Heart, But — 39 

What Came of It 39 

Man May Forget — 40 

The Typo and His Pipe 41 

The Cost of It - 41 

Clean Up Tour Own Back Yard 42 

A Costly Painting 43 

A School of Patience „ _ 44 

The Ruling Passion 45 

A Chicken Pie - 45 

The Man With a Pull - 47 

Mother, Come Home 48 

The Mill of Life 48 

Vinegar Pie 49 

Rosa and Mary - 49 



Old Twenty Per Cent 50 

Don't You Do It — 51 

William and Jerry 52 

Pass a Resolution — 53 

The Beauties of Gas — 54 

I Knew It Would Rain - 54 

Take Up the Printer's Burden 55 

Political Tiddle-de-winks - 56 

Latter Day Logic 56 

Looking Backward _ 57 

The Same Old Love Story _ 60 

Boarding 'Round 61 

The Thanksgiving Gobbler _ 63 

Quit Your Grumbling 64 

The JefEers Chorus 65 

Tell Me, Ye Kansas Winds 67 

A Psalm of Winter 68 

Origin of Fashions 69 

To Dandle on Your Knee 72 

Build a Fence _ - 72 

Monkey-Parrot Fight 73 

Away with Trouble 73 

That Little Hatchet 74 

The Right of Way 74 

Gen. Funston _ t5 

A Few Don'ts 75 

The Masses Not Asses _ 76 

Swat the Fly T7 

Forever on the Wag - 78 

The Case of Job 79 

Old Father Time "J 9 

Come, Sweet Harbinger 80 

Popping Com „ 81 

Children Yet _ 81 

The Preachers Have Come to Town 82 

The Baker Rubaiyat 83 



KANSAS. 

In the Louisiana Purchase 
Kansas was the biggest hit, 

With her deserts and her prairies. 
Where the coyotes howled and "fit". 

And upon the world's great atlas 
Kansas still, I claim, is "it." 

Southern birds of evil omen 

Made their nests in dugout thatch ; 
Freedom flred the sun-dried stubble 

With her ever-ready match. 
Gave the eggs so bad a roasting 

That they never made a hatch. 

In the Kansas days primeval, 

Days before the cruel war. 
Giants trod her hills and valleys. 

From the pulpit, shop and bar. 
Who began to blaze a pathway 

To the most exalted star. 

Suns they were, not free from blemish. 
Spots, it may be, marred each name. 

And thru word or deed of daring. 
Little known to "Halls of Fame." 

Yet they made the very heavens 
With sweet Liberty aflame. 

Lane who led without a turning 
To the left hand or the right ; 

Brown the lover of the bondman. 
Whether black or red or white ; 

Reeder, Geary, Denver, — beacons, 
In a dark and stormy night. 

Then there followed in close order 

Men of royal pedigree ; 
Crawford, Harvey, Thacher, Wilder, 

Plumb, St. John and Connelley, 
Ingalls, Anthony and Hasdkell — 

These are my big Kansas Three. 



In the state's entire horizon 

Shine the stars of clearest light, 

Meteoric some, in brilliance, 

Making all the heavens bright — 

Snow. Carruth, McCarter, Allen. 

Mason, Smith, Quayle, Hoch and White 

Nor should we forget Joe Bristow, 
He who won the Long, long term, 

Nor the coming of the Campbell, 
With his heel implantea firm 

On the Octopus infernal, 

That began to ma>e him squirm. 

On our Kansas center tables 

Stand our literary Ware, 
Inkhorns holding quills of iron, 

Bric-a-brac and vases rare. 
Filled with posies from the prairies. 

Sweeter far than eglantare. 

There is music in the breezes. 
Sweeping over hill and plain. 

Wooing back each son and daughter, 
By its soft and sweet refrain. 

Tho it be Queen Esther roaming 
From the Golden gate to Maine. 

Writers, orators and statesmen. 
Swarm our prairies like the bee. 

Poets plucking fadeless honors. 

From the sky and flower and tree. 

Till the fragrance of their laurels 
Fills the lands beyond the sea. 

Ground historic has New England. 

Other states a sacred spot, 
Where great men were born, or strugglec^ 

For the right, in battles hot : 
Kansas has distinguished children 

For each tract and corner lot. 



"Laugh, and the world laughs with 
Weep, and you weep alone;" — 

Throw at the world a brickbat ; 
It will answer you with a stone. 



10 



LET ME FORGET. 

As I traverse old memory's halls 
Unpleasant things my mind recalls ; 
My vision fills with floating motes, 
Vexatious bills, pestiferous notes ; 
LOSS after loss, and little gain, 
With meager sunshine, plenty of ram 
Life's fuss and furor, pain and sweat 
Let me forget. Let me forget. 

The days when I was rudely yanked 
And with stern vigor sorely spanked. 
By that irascible school marm 
With flashing eye and mighty arm. 
Who taught with eye and hand and foot 
The young idea how to shoot,— 
Those days are gone without regret ; 
Let me forget. Let me forget. 

The lovely girl with auburn hair. 

Within whose meshes as a snare 

My willing heart was caught and held 

A prisoner, in the days of eld ; 

O deeply into love I fell 

With this most fair but false dam-sell. 

This episode I now regret ; 

Let me forget. Let me forget. 

The times when I was in distress 

Because of hate and selfishness. 

And frequently was in the toils 

Of Shylocks, shysters, agues, boils ; 

When I was green, and often blue. 

And friends once cherished proved untrue. 

And trials sore my life beset,— 

Let rae forget. Let me forget. 

O should I be so fortunate, 
And some day pass the pearly gate 
And reach the land of love and light. 
The woes of earth, its gloom, its night, 
Its follies, fashions, fevers, fakes. 
Its bitter pills, and pains and aches. 
And tears that oft my eyelids wet. 
Let me forget. Let me forget. 



11 



THE SCARRED VETERAN. 

He slowly limps about the house. 

And often seeks the outer door, 
And wanders round the premises, 

And views them daily o'er and o'er. 

And as he halting walks about, 

Or calmly sits with half closed eye, 

He seems to meditate upon 

The thrilling- scenes of days gone by. 

Again he sees the battle front ; 

Again he hears the bugle call ; 
Again he rushes to the fray ; 

Again he sees his foeman fall. 

Foe after foe he grappled with 

On many a dark and bloody field ; 

And tho the combat lasted long, 
He never had been known to yield. 

He often fought far in the night. 
Unseen except by glittering star ; 

And all the trophies that he gained 
Was many a long, unsightly scar. 

All maimed and scarred thru conflicts dire 

He lingers on day after day, 
And calmly rests beneath the shade. 

Or in the sunshine's gentle ray. 

He cannot linger long, and yet 
He does not seem to care for thnt ; 

Who is this veteran, do you ask ? 
He is our aged Thomas cat. 



'Twas only some berries — the goose — 

Growing near the garden wall ; 
A boy found the berries — the goose — 

And ate them, the large and small. 
At midnight a cry was raised, 

That grew to a terrible squall — 
That boy wished he never had seen 

Those berries — the goose — at all. 



12 



THE CROP THAT NEVER FAILS. 

The rust may kill the ripening wheat, 

The chinch bugs eat the corn ; 
The sleet may leave the apple trees 

Of buds and blossoms shorn ; 
A blizzard come along and lash 

The peach buds with his tail, 
But there is always one great crop 

That's never known to fail. 

The frost may suck the oranges, 

And squeeze the lemons dry ; 
And make the Rocky cantaloupes 

All wither up and die ; 
Potatoes may be very small, 

And very few in a hill. 
And yet there will be one big crop 

That you can count on still. 

Bananas may be black or green, 

And never turn to gold ; 
With worms the chestnuts, prunes and plum? 

Be full as they can hold ; 
The peanuts all may peter out 

And pop -corn fail to shoot, 
Bvit one crop every year is sure 

To come to flower and fruit. 

The cholera may kill the hogs. 

And all the chickens, too ; 
The murrain take the cattle off. 

From Gentile and from Jew ; 
The garden stuff may be done up 

By cyclone, drouth, or rain, 
And yet there's one crop can't be hurt 

By h^Al or hurricane. 

Account for this prodigious fact 

In any way you may ; 
It has been true in all the world 

Since Adam's natal day ; 
It needs no syllogism fine 

In logic of the schools. 
To prove that one crop never fails — 

The crop of blooming fools. 

For folly is man's natural bent — 
Did not A-dam begin it ? 



13 



But once a year a wise man comes : 
A fool is born each minute. 

No matter then what seasons brings. 
Or wlio the empire rules, 

Until old Gabriel toots his horn 
There'll be a crop of fools. 



a?" t^ 



THE STANDARD OCTOPUS. 

The Octopus is a wily beast — 

A wily beast is he ; 
And his tentacles are long and strong. 

And they reach beyond the sea ; 
But when he would get beneath his paw 

The old Jayhawker crew, 
Like Gilroy's kite they made him fly 

Until he reached the blue. 

The Octopus is a wise old beast — 

A wise old beast is he ; 
And he has outwitted men and states. 

And nations long called free ; 
But when he spread his slimy form 

Out toward the woolly west, 
The Kansas legislator gave 

His tail an awful twist. 

The Octopus is a mighty beast — 

A mighty beast is he ; 
He thought to rule with lordly sway 

In every land and sea ; 
But when he roamed on Kansas soil, 

With his high- stepping gait, 
A Kansas cyclone came along 

And swept him from the state. 

The Octopus of the Standard brand 

Is a robber big and bold, 
Worse than a million Robin Hoods, 

That highwayman of old ; 
And when he called a Kansas man 

To hold his hands up high, 
He got a solar plexus blow 

And a bulging big black eye. 



•WHEN MA PUTS DOWN HER FOOT, 

I tell, you, boys, things have to move 
As fast as wheels along a groove. 

Around our little hut. 
For law is law withaut a dout>t. 
And 'tis no use to snarl or pout, 

When ma puts dov/n her foot. 

My pa, you bet, just flies around, 
And no grass grows upon the ground. 

Along his bee-line route. 
For what she says has to be done, 
And kitchen dishes ring like fun, 

When ma puts down her foot. 

Poor Carlo tucks his drooping tail 
Between his legs, and with a wail 

Will take a rapid shoot 
For some safe place to hide away. 
And won't appear for one whole day. 

When ma puts down her foot. 

My sisters, too, can plainly trace 
The rising tempest in her face. 

And in their terror mute. 
They dare not say their souls their own, 
But stand like statues made of stone, 

When ma puts down her foot. 

The chickens even seem to know 
Just when the storm begins to blow ; 

And off they quickly scoot. 
On spreading wings and flying feet. 
To some well known and safe retreat. 

When ma puts down her foot. 

I tell you, boys, ma knows her "biz." 
She 'T.hows this in her war-like "phiz," 

Tho no female galoot, 
Nor is she often very cross, 
But all of us know who is boss. 

When ma puts down her foot 



Lives of foot-ball teams remind us 
We can make our bones unsound. 

And departing on a litter. 

Leave our hip-prints on the ground. 



15- 



OVERTAXED. 

The eye of man, thru overstrain, 

Has lost the sense of sight, 
And sees no beauty in the plain, 

Tho bathed in floods of light. 

The nerves of smell have lost their power 

Thru slow but sure disease. 
Till dead to fragrant spice and flower, 

Even on Arabian seas. 

The battle's din, the cannon's roar, 

Have pressed upon the ear 
With such vibration that no more 

Is heard the victor's cheer. 

The constant and unresting strain. 

On serum, nerve and cell, 
Has made a ruin of the brain. 

The mind's strong citadel. 

But history, sacred or profane, 

In mankind, old or young. 
Presents to us thru overstrain. 

Not one disabled tongue. 

TELL ME NOT. 

Tell me not of Maine, 

Nor yet of Californy, 
Nor of Iowa, 

So cold and yet so corn-y ; 
Of Missouri speak 

In whispered accents only ; 
Nothing let us hear 

Of Texas large and lonely. 

Tell me of the state 

Of wonderful resources ; 
Rich in men and soil. 

And in industrial forces ; 
Kansas is her name. 

And in the constellation. 
Her ascending star 

Is brightest in the nation. 



THE OPTIMIST. 

His vision penetrates the gauze 

Tliat hides the sham and tlie unreal. 
And sees beyond the lines and laws 

That constitute the fair ideal ; 
The clouds may darken all his days ; 

He knows they have a silver lining. 
And that above earth's mists and haze 

The lamps of heaven still are sliining. 

He hears the word of faithful friend 

In tones of anger rudely spoken. 
But quickly memory doth send 

To wounded heart love's old-time token ; 
He does not waste a moment's time. 

Nor vex his soul in idle grieving, 
But sings a merry little rhyme. 

And tastes the sweetness of forgiving. 

Disease may throw him on a bed, 

And tackle lung and heart and liver ; 
While he can lift his hand or head 

He blesses still the Mercy Giver ; 
He says that sickness comes to rid 

Of poisons his law-breaking body, 
And all the microbes in him hid 

Will fly before blue-mass and toddy. 

Hard luck may strike him with her tist, 

And leave him prostrate, bruised and bleeding. 
With little power to resist 

The cormorants upon him feeding ; 
Yet from his lips escapes no curse, 

Nor does he blame his stars above him. 
But says it might have been much worse. 

And thinks the fates will turn and love him. 

His eyes look thru the uncouth dress 

And see the loyal heart beneath it ; 
Tho thorn-crown on the brow doth press. 

There's only love for those who weave it ; 
Tho by blind hate and vengeful ire 

The spikes thru hands and feet are driven, 
Deep in the soul there's one desire — 

That this their crime may be forgiven. 

He looks upon a world of sin 

Portrayed by venal, jaundiced journals — 



17 



Its scenes of blood, tumult and din. 
As if were loose all hell's infernals ; 

He says these things must all needs be — 
Are pangs of a new world a-borning ; 

That soon the night away will flee. 

And then will dawn millennial morninj 



«^ tS^ 



THE EDITOR'S CHAIR. 

I love it, I love it, and who shall dare 

To chide me for loving the editor's chair ? 

In the early days 'twas an old pine box, 

And, wearing jeans pants and curly lock^3, 

The editor sat, with fire in his eye. 

That would roast a foe, or paint red the sky. 

And spirits rare, and spirits evil, 

Could quell a mob, or raise the devil. 

Oh. the editor's chair is an easy seat. 
With a desk in front for his ample feet. 
Whereon he places them high in air, 
In a way not entirely debonair. 
He writes of markets, finance and stocks, 
Of statesmen with and without any socks ; 
Sometimes a drop of his pearly ink 
Will make a million men stop and think. 

The pine box seat of ye olden time. 

With its many splotches of ink and grim.e. 

Has disappeared. In a fit of ire 

The "devil" used it to kindle the fire ; 

And in its place is an easy chair. 

Upholstered with springs and plush and hair, 

But soft or hard 'tis a royal throne, 

And no base fellow should sit thereon. 

I love it, I love it, the editor's chair, 
For the noble men, so true and rare. 
Who now, as in days of long ago, 
With pen and pencil, v/rought overthrow 
To ancient wrong and to modern sin. 
Without war's terrible ravage and din. 
Unfading laurels should they ever wear. 
Who worthily sit in the editor's chair. 



18 



THE PESSIMIST. 

(The reading of this piece of verse kept 

a railroad man in New Mexico 

from suicide.) 

He watches every darkling cloud. 

Lurid with lightning's gleaming, 
But never sees the sunset's glow, 

Or stars in splendor beaming ; 
Each day is drearier than the last. 

And calls for more repining ; 
He grumbles at the sun because 

It does so little shining. 

He hears the croaking of the frogs, 

In stagnant lake or river ; 
The echo of their doleful tones 

Rings in his ears forever ; 
When sing the birds his aural drum 

Seems muffled o'er with cotton. 
And should it vibrate with one note, 

'Tis soon, alas, forgotten. 

The weeds all grow along his path. 

And never rose or liiy ; 
To search for lucky clover leaves 

Strikes him as "blooming silly." 
He sees no majesty in trees. 

No beauty in the grasses ; 
The last make only provender 

For oxen, sheep and asses. 

He thinks that Shylocks rule mankind. 

And poor men have no chances ; 
That money plays the violin, 

While labor only dances. 
No more have people any rights — 

Not even to petition — 
And all are straightway downward bent 

To bow-wows and demnition. 

He says the world is all awry, 

And doomed to dire disaster ; 
To Hades has been moving fast. 

And now is moving faster ; 
That times are sadly out of joint, 

And all things topsy-turvy. 



19 



And Satan has us by the heeLs, 
And churches reek with scurvy. 

Ring- off, old man, to this good earth 
You have no heavenly message ; 

The boat that plies the river Styx 
Is waiting for your passage. 

Come, jump aboard, no longer stay ; 
For you the imps are ready. 

With brimstone ample in supply- 
There ! Stygian boatman, steady ! 



«5* «^ 



ONE BY ONE. 

One by one the petals fall 

From the drooping summer rose ; 

One by one, beyond recall, 

Come the wrinkles round the nose. 

One by one the forest trees 

Drop their leaves to earth beneath ; 
One by one, with gleesome ease, 

Dentiots yank out aching teeth. 

One by one big dinners flow 

Down the gulch with cream pnd cake 
One by one the doctors go 

After vermiforms that ache. 

One by one the flakes come down. 

In old winter's whirlwind glee ; 
One by one locks round the crown 

Blossom like the almond tree. 

One by one maids fair and fain. 
On some manly bosom drop ; 

One by one life's cups we drain ; 
Some are nectar, some are slop. 

One by one as years depart 

High hopes tumble into wreck ; 

One by one death's poisoned dart 
Gives it to us in the neck. 



20 



THE TREMULO STOP. 

She stood before the expectant throng, 

With rosy cheek and resplendent eye, 
And raised her voice in exultant song, 

That stirred emotions of ecstasy ; 
But as she worked the chromatic scale, 

With a sort of running jump, skip and hop 
The melody died with a dismal wail, 

As the singer yanked out the Tremulo Stop. 

Her voice went soaring, and reached "high C", 

Like a mounting eagle in joyous flight. 
But took a sudden slide down to Z, 

Clear out of hearing, almost out of sight ; 
I could have endured the slur and trill, 

As my beaded brow I began to mop. 
But down my vertebra went a chill. 

As a cold wave blew from the Tremulo Stop. 

I heard it thru with an inward moan. 

But wished I was seated upon a cloud. 
As it floated out to a distant zone. 

Away from the church and away from the crowd 
Where I could hear the bewitching tones 

Of the old tom-tom at the Navajo hop, 
Devoid of all the artistic groans. 

The caterwauls of the Tremulo Stop. 



THE GROUCH. 

The world is on the downward grade. 

And fast and faster flying ; 
Upon your life no premium's paid. 

Except by early dying. 

And men are growing worse and worse. 

And women following after ; 
'Tis more and more beneath the curse 

Of fool and knave and grafter. 

The money god has in his pinch 
Our good old Yankee Doodle ; 

And Satan has a timelock cinch 
Upon the whole capoodle. 



21 



TALKrNG THRU A WIRE. 



In days when I was young 

And sunny were the skies, 
A rare and radiant maid 

Talked to me thru her eyes ; 
Her love was false, and tore 

My hearstrings like a brier. 
And now with me she does 

Her talking- thru a wire. 

And once I knew a man 

Who v/ore most modern clothes, 
But had a habit bad 

Of talking thru his nose ; 
To hear him was enough 

To make the dead perspire. 
I'd only want to talk 

With this man thru a wire. 

Sometimes we meet a man 

To have a little chat, 
And find, alas, he does 

His talking thru his hat. 
Down in your heart there springs 

At once a strong desire 
That such a man would do 

His talking thru a wire. 

Most frequently in life 

The phone is handy quite. 
Particularly when 

You're in a mood to fight ; 
If in your quarrel just 

You call a man a liar. 
How fortunate are you. 

If talking thru a wire. 

Again there is the man 

Who has an onion breath, 
And also one whose teeth 

Are odorous as death ; 
If he resides in Spain, 

In Sodom or in Tyre, 
You will not get the stench 

When talking thru a wire. . 



22 



THE DEVIL SMILED. 

She stood beneath the maple trees, 

And listened to his prayer ; 
The liglit of love was in her eye. 

The sunset in her hair. 
He said he would renounce the cup, 

Because of her great love. 
And while he vowed, his whisky breath 

Was sweetened by a clove. 
And in the shadows near at hand. 

The devil stood the while. 
And as he listened, on his face 

There crept a little smile. 

A merchant stood behind his case, 

With face childlike and bland, 
Declared the fabric wholly wool, — 

None cheaper in the land ; 
And yet he knew that in the warp 

The shoddy was concealed, 
And only to the expert's eye 

The lie could be revealed. 
Behind a pile of goods near by 

The devil stroked his chin. 
And as he listened, o'er his face 

There stole a little grin. 

A politician on the stump 

Proclaimed himself to be 
A strong defender of the right, 

A champion of the free. 
He took the oath of office with 

His hand uplifted high ; 
And now is elbow deep into 

The public treasury. 
And a.^ he stole the people's cash. 

The devil stood near by, 
And merry twinkles came and went 

In his observant eye. 

A fever turned the patient's head ; 

(The doctor was not daft ; 
He knew the sick man's name meant miioh 

At tail end of a draft.) 
"Your case is very serious, sir;" — 

The doctor's tone was grave, — 
"And yet I think I'll pull you thru, 



23 



So cheer up, man, be brave." 
The trouble was, the devil knevsr, 

A small excess of bile ; 
The doctor stole a big, fat fee — 

The devil stole a smile. 

A minister in cap and gown 

Behind his pulpit stood, 
And with loud exhortations begged 

His people to be good ; 
And yet his feet were on the sand, 

And not upon the Rock ; 
His eye upon the golden fleece, 

And not upon his flock. 
And while he lifted up his voice 

In mockery of prayer. 
The devil snickered in h's sleeve 

Behind the pulpit chair. 

J' J' 
KANSAS FOREVER. 

'Tis the Sunflower state 

I congratulate 
Upon her wealth and beauty ; 

With her sons high born. 

She is duly sworn 
To loyalty and duty. 

Over hill and plain 

Waves the golden grain ; 
Her banks are full of money ; 

And she takes her stand 

Far above the land. 
That flowed with milk and honey. 

If a Kansan stray 

To a land far away, 
And spent is all his lucre. 

He will try any trick 

To return home quick, 
jGven try his hand at euchre. 

'Tis the Sunflower state 

I felicitate ; 
Her star is rising higher ; 

And the cuss or curd 

Who disputes my word 
Is an infernal liar. 



24 



WHEN BIG FOLKS COME. 



Ma stirs herself, and makes things hum 

When she expects big folks to come ; 

With resolution fit to kill, 

Each corner of our domicile 

Is cleared of spider webs and dust, 

And chaos reigns, to the disgust 

Of every inmate large and small. 

In parlor, sitting room and hall. 

The china closet must give up 

Its prettiest plate, its daintiest cup ; 

The silver ware is trotted out, 

And cut glass dishes sing and shout 

The glories of the sumptuous spread, 

And lamps their brightest haloes shed, 

And all the home is made to shine. 

When Ma expects big folks to dine. 

The fattest turkey in the town 
Is baked and basted to a brown ; 
The veal-loaf roasted to a turn, 
Nor is the cake allowed to burn ; 
The viands served on chafing dish 
Are all an epicure could wish. 
I tell you what, Ma has a spell 
If the occasion is not swell. 

And when the guests have all gone hence, 
And with them show and vain pretense. 
To old-time ways you then relapse, 
And munch in sullenness the scraps. 
With little talk, and common ware, 
Without the glitter and the glare 
Of cut glass dishes, silver spoons, — 
Your staple diet hash and prunes. 

To some it seems a little queer 
That fancy victuals, splendid cheer. 
Should only be accorded those 
Who visit you in Sunday clothes. 
Whose friendship is an empty name, 
Who on you have no valid claim. 
Is not Love's highest, noblest test. 
To serve the dear ones with the best ? 



25 



THE OFFICE SEEKER. 

Soon the little office seeker 
Will be getting in the push, 

With a face and manner meeker 
Than old Moses by the bush. 

He will grasp your hand so tightly. 
And will smile from ear to ear. 

And his countenance beam brightly. 
With the gospel of good cheer. 

He commends the pretty misses 
For their cunning, winsome ways, 

And the dirty baby kisses. 
And no nausea betrays. 

In his eagerness to meet you, 
He will cross a muddy road. 

And with pleasant words will greet you, 
And then play the little toad. 

He's a paragon of virtue. 
If you let him tea tne tale ; 

If you help him 'twill not hurt you. 
When he rises in the scale. 

Is it needful thus to saunter 

All around old Rob Hood's barn? 

Why not reach the point instanter. 
Cutting out yarn after yarn. 

There's an antiquated saying. 
Let the office seek the man ; 

Ears stand out above this braying. 
Fashioned something like a fan. 

If you hanker for position, 

Do not seek it with a lie ; 
Do not call It recognition. 

When you're only after pie. 

Never pose as a defendant, 
To your better self be true ; 

Be courageous, independent. 
Let none have a string on you. 

If you want an office say it. 
In an earnest, honest tone ; 

Manhood is the price, then pay it. 
Or leave politics alone. 



26 



SEE THAT PHARISEE. 

Seest thou that Pharisee, 

Going up to prayer, 
Telling. God his pedigree 

With a lordly air ? 
Hear him mutter, with a sneer, 
"Publican, come not thou near."^ 

Seest thou that Pharisee, 

On the Jericho road ; 
Wounded man he failed to see. 

As he upward strode ; 
Temple service could not wait ; 
On he went at auto gait. 

Seest thou that Pharisee, 

In his long-tailed coat. 
Peering in his neighbor's eye. 

Looking for a mote ? 
Would it not far wiser seem 
To remove his own big beam ? 

Seest thou that Pharisee, 
Boastful, vain and proud 1 

He is far too good to be 
Mingling with the crowd ; 

What to him is infidel. 

Or a sinning damosel ? 

Seest thou that Pharisee, 

In his white cravat. 
On his big, round salary. 

Growing sleek and fat ? 
With his stylish hat and cloak, 
What cares he for us poor folk 't 

Poor, deluded Pharisee, 

See the Saviour meek, 
Sinners vile beyond degree, 

In His mercy seek. 
Pharisee, just stand and wait. 
While these pass the pearly gate. 



27 



AN O'ER TRUE TALE. 

She was a modest looking girl, 

With eyes of witching brown, 
And had a laugh as silvery ** * » 

As any in the town ; 
Alas, she had a habit bad, 

And somewhat wearisome, 
No matter what the time or place, 

Of always chewing gum. 

When but a maiden in her teens, 

A pupil in the schools. 
She cared not for the teacher stern. 

Nor for his rigid rules ; 
She hid her face behind her book. 

When she would "do a sum", 
And figured faster when her jaw 

Was busy chewing gum. 

She played upon the piano well. 

And played it soft and loud. 
And made sweet music for her friends. 

And for the cheering crowd ; 
Her time was always accurate, 

Wliene'er she made it hum ; 
She kept it with the motion of 

Her jaw while chewing gum. 

At last she had a handsome beau. 

Who loved her, strange to say. 
And sought to win her for his own, 

For months, day after day ; 
And when he asked her for her hand. 

She simply said, "Tum, yum," 
And dropped her head upon his breast. 

And kept on chewing gum. 

The winds may tire of blowing o'er 

The dreary, desert waste ; 
The rivers may get weary, too. 

As to the sea they haste ; 
Unto those wagging, working jaws 

Will no tired feeling come? 
When death shall lay her in the grave 

Will she keep chewing gum? 



28 



KEEP A STIFF UPPER LIP. 



If hard luck your spirit is riling. 

Just face the old world all a- smiling— 

Keep a stiff upper lip. 
If your pocket is empty don't blow it, 
If your feelings are wounded don't show it 
If gloomy let nobody know it, — 

Keep a stiff upper lip. 

If tears come pull out your bandanna, 
As you dry them just sing a hosanna — 

Keep a stiff upper lip. 
If your sky is all clouded with sorrow. 
There comes soon a brighter tomorrow, 
Just lend all your troubles, don't borrow — 

Keep a stiff upper lip. 

If your clothing is tattered and torn. 
'Tis a worse thing to look all forlorn — 

Keep a stiff upper lip. 
Let your spirits be happy and free. 
Then the people who meet you won't see 
The old hat or the patch on your knee — 

Keep a stiff upper lip. 

If at a swift gait you've been running 
To escape from a fellow that's dunning — 

Keep a stiff upper lip. 
Let me tell you 'tis better to chase him. 
And coming up boldly to face him. 
Than cross o'er the street and thus pass him 

Keep a stiff upper lip. 

If you have been pacing the floor 

O'er your debts till your feet are all sore — 

Keep a stiff upper lip. 
Let the other man pace it awhile, 
Until he is ready to smile, 
And give you another fair trial — 

Keep a stiff upper lip. 

If times become harder and harder. 

And there's only a crust in the larder — 

Keep a stiff upper lip. 
Tho the sheriff grabs hold of your collar. 



And threatens to take your last dollar. 
Don't whine like a baby and "holler" — 
Keep a stiff upper lip. 

If you're honest and faithful and true. 
Your friends will be faithful to you— 

Keep a stiff upper lip. 
Don't cheat, don't be tricky, don't lie. 
And never, no, never say die. 
Keep heaven and hope in your eye — 

Keep a stiff upper lip. 






DO NOT CHEW YOUR PILL 

Life is full of pain and trouble, 
Independent of your will, 

And no matter what your station, 
General William or plain Bill ; 

Should you medicate your liver, 
Do not chew your pill. 

Ailments surely will attack you. 
Some but slightly, some to kill. 

Call the doctor if you care to. 
Let him give you what he will. 

But I beg of you to heed me — 
Do not chew your pill. 

Many failures may await you. 
Ere you write your codicil, 

Like a little man accept them. 
With the semblance of a smil^, 

Do your best to keep from wincinj,, 
Do not chew your pill. 

Ruminate these few suggestions, 
As the cattle on the hill ; 

Ruminate your bread and butter. 
Working jawbone with a will ; 

But don't ruminate your troubles — 
Do not chew your pill. 



30 



THE EXPANSION OF WOMAN. 

While Uncle Sam is taking in 

Outlying lands and isles, 
Fair woman also conquests makes 

By force of arms, and smiles. 

In times not far remote her sphere 
Had certain meets and bounds, 

And rarely passed beyond the lines 
Of home's treadmillic rounds. 

But now how rapidly doth she 
Usurp man's high estate ; 

And when she once ascends to place, 
She will not abdicate. 

Long time ago she crossed the bar 
That kept her from the law ; 

She makes a strong antagonist. 
Because of active jaw. 

And surely as an orator 

She will achieve renown, 
For she has been a lecturer 

From Mrs. Caudle down. 

She easily conducts a bank, 
Nor does she think it funny 

To run away to Canada, 

With all the people's money. 

And as a swift stenographer 
She always leads the van ; 

She takes not only rapid notes, 
But sometimes takes the man. 

As teacher in our public schools 
She often leads the class, 

Tho into the domestic branch 
She early hopes to pass. 

In medicine and surgery 
She holds an active part ; 

In these her great success has been 
In troubles of the heart. 



31 



Her mother Eve, it was, began 

Associations evil, 
And hence she takes to journalism. 

For there she finds the devil. 

As editress she wields the pen 
With many a point and dash : 

And she can roast an enemy 
With ease, like making hash. 

She runs our stores, and runs our farms, 
And endless trades between ; 

If she keeps up this rapid pace, 
She'll run the whole machine. 

She may adopt the male attire 

In collars, coats, cravats. 
And, with a feather or a flower, 

May also wear our hats. 

She may forsake the baby's crib. 
And give up cooking prunes. 

But while man makes our civil laws, 
She can't wear pantaloons. 



IT HAS A LIMIT. 

"As man thinketh so he is," 

Is merely postulation. 
And the fact needs emphasis — 

It has its limitation. 

Here's a woman with a voice 
Just like a turkey gobbler ; 

She may make no little noise — 
She'll never be a warbler. 

Man with nature like a bear. 
Or hoggish in extraction, 

Never can be debonair. 

By strenuous mental action, 

Shakespeare was a genius born, 
A truth that brooks no blinking 

One horn has a unicorn — 
He can't get more by thinking. 



32 



I WOULD NOT BE A BOY AGAIN, 



I would not be a boy again, 

Upon my mother's knee. 
When her old slipper fell like rain 

On parts I could not see ; 
Nor was it any easy thing 

To face a father's wi'ath. 
And hear a switch in high C sing 

Out by the garden path. 

I would not be a boy again, 

And eating apples green 
And groan all night with might and main, 

With aches about the spleen ; 
The bitter potions, nauseous pills 

I was compelled to take 
With sickening taste my mouth still fills. 

When from youth's dreams I wake. 

I would not be a boy again. 

And told to stop my noise ; 
To listen, not be heard, 'twas plain, 

Was just the thing for boys. 
A big drum major I would be. 

With flashy uniform. 
In the front rank where all could see 

While ladies round me swarm. 

I would not be a boy again. 

And pulled for little steals. 
Which gave my conscience much less pain 

Than bruises on my heels, 
I much prefer to be a man 

And make my hoard of wealth 
Upon the Rockefeller plan 

By legal ways of stealth. 

I would not be a boy again, 

No, no, my friend, not I. 
I dreamed of castles once in Spain ; 

The dream turned out a lie. 
I've had my surfeit long ago. 

Of all such things as these ; 
Now I am in the bald-head row 

And want to take my ease. 



33 



THE MODERN SSLOAM. 

"By cool Siloam's shady rill, 

How sweet the lily grows;" — 

Thus Heber praised, in verse, the land 
Where Sharon's beauty glows. 

Not of Siloam's ancient brook 

I tune my song today ; 
But of a stream of modern fame. 

Not many leagues away. 

Down in the land of Arkansaw, 

Among the flinty hills, 
Hei-e crystal waters ever spring. 

And run in sparkling rills. 

Here come the lame, the halt, the blind. 
The twisted up rheumatics ; 

The dropsies and dyspeptics, too, 
The wheezical asthmatics. 

They sit beneath the chinquapin. 

Or by the sweet gum tree. 
And quaff the water sparkling bright 

That flows so pure and free. 

The waters seem a healing balm, 
Better than pill or potion ; 

They stir man's inner organs up, 
And put them in commotion. 

They drive the refuse matter out. 
And bring in living tissue ; — 

As banks from circulation draw 
Old notes for a new issue. 

The lame man leapeth as a hart, 
And throws away his splints ; 

And the rheumatic straightens up 
And jumps round o'er the flints. 

Oh, wondrous water ! healing stream ! 

That stays the hour of dying ; 
And cureth all of man's disease 

Except, perhaps, his lying. 



34 



SINCE I HAVE LOST MY CASH. 

No slick promoter of a scheme. 

With a cool million in it. 
Approaches me, and sings his song 
As sweetly as a linnet, 
And gives me chances rash. 
Since I have lost my cash. 

I was the lawyer's patron saint, 

When pocketbook was flush. 
And all procedures legal went 

Thru court with lightning rush. 
All lawsuits are in quash. 
Since I have lost my cash. 

No politician comes around, 

And smiles and smiles and smiies. 
And gives to me the campaign shake, 
And with it sundry wiles, 
I wave no party lash, 
Since I have lost my cash. 

The parson even looks askance, 

And hastens on his way 

To some important public task, 

Like Levi in his day. 

He cares not for my hash. 

Since I have lost my cash. 

The banker always took my hand 

And took my money, too. 
And trusted me for loans when big 
Collateral was in view. 
He pleads impending crash. 
Since I have lost my cash. 

The merchant hailed me as I passed, 

And sold me goods galore, 
And raked my dollars in his till. 
And trusted me for more. 

My name has one long 

Since I have lost my cash. 

Once I was in the social swim, 

And held a lofty hand. 
And lifted high the ruby wine, 

To health of ladies grand. 



35 



They dub me poor white trash, 
Since I have lost my cash. 

When sick the doctor called in state. 

And diagnosed my case. 
And to the region vermiform 

My ailments all would trace. 
'Tis bellyache "be gash", 
Since I have lost my cash. 

When my poor body coldly lies 

Beneath the sheltering snow. 
May angels bear my soul away, 
And never let me go 
Where teeth forever gnash, 
No matter what the cash. 



BOWELS AND BRAINS. 

In early days of Kansas 
The air was full of lances, 

The lances of the tongue ; 
It was hard times, my sonny. 
And people had no money, 

But ample jaw and lung. 

Two men in Douglas county 
Were seekers of the bounty 

That office holding gains ; 
The one was fat and gritty. 
The other lean and witty — 

'Twas bowels versus brains. 

It was a famous battle, 
Old Slander and Old Tattle 

Had made a merry chase ; 
But Brains had not been in it, 
No, not a single minute, 

For Bowels won the race. 

How often do we see it, 
The fates seem to decree it, 

A picturesque old hog, 
Mr. Bowels orotundo, 
O'er Mr. Brains profundo, 

Is winner of the tog. 



36 



LA GRIPPE. 

First there comes a little yawning- 
And a stretching of the limbs ; 

Then a little watery humor 
Seeping from the eyelid's rims. 

Afterwards there comes an aching 
And a quaking in the back. 

Just as if a huge pile driver 
Had come at you with a whack. 

Then the pains run thru your body 
With a terrible momentum — 

Jumping, tearing and cavorting 
Like a very imp had sent 'em. 

Cold you are as any iceberg 

Till you wish you were in — well — 

In a region that is hotter 

Than the one in which you dwell. 

All the time while aching, groaning. 
Heed you must give to your nose ; 

You may strive to keep it quiet, 

But it blows and blows and blows. 

Till a cyclone of disaster 

Fills its cavities within. 
And your brain is racked and roaring 

With an everlasting din. 

Then you tumble, toss and grumble 

As upon your bed you lie. 
Till in agony you wonder 

Why the Lord won't let you die. 

Feelings deep of utter meanness, 
(I'm not talking thru my hat,) 

Strike you, like the sad experience 
Of a populist democrat. 

Tell me not of Job the patriarch. 
Of his boils and loss of sheep. 

Of his wife's exasperation. 

What are all these to La Grippe? 

I have had the "third day ager" 
And the fever, high and low. 



Till the doctor sadly whispered, 
" 'Tis, I think, his time to go." 

All the ills that flesh is heir to, 

Piled up in a single heap. 
Then poured in the human body — 

This is genuine La Grippe. 

Give me all the other microbes 

That thru bodies squirm and creep. 

But deliver from the impish 
Microbes of the "tarnal" Grippe. 

INVIDUS. 

The crimson current of our lives 
Is often tinged with green ; 

Our chiefest organ sometimes seems 
Alas, to be the spleen. 

"Do unto others as ye would" — 
We read with kindly eyes, 

But straightway we forget the words 
When "others" strive to rise. 

My neighbor's welcome to the fruit 

Of fig tree and of vine. 
Provided, always, 'tis less rare 

And plentiful than mine. 

When on life's ladder we behold 

Another climbing high. 
No cheer escapes the lip — instead 

It quivers with a sigh. 

A neighbor addeth land to land. 
Wealth Cometh at his call. 

Yet gladness kindles many an eye 
When realty takes a fall. 

The envious man is but a cur 

Of mongrel pedigree. 
Who yelps and snarls at other dogs 

And larger far than he. 

Oh, can there not a solvent rare 

Be made by chemist's art 
That will transform to red the green 

In many a human heart ? 



38 



TMEXT TO NATURE'S HEART,, BUT- 

I'd like to get near Nature's heart. 

And feel her pulses beat, 
"With all the glow and ecstasy 

Of spring's delights so sweet, 
If I could only have her warmth. 

Without her scorching heat. 

I'd like to saunter by the stream, 

Reflecting crimson skies, 
And hear the music of its voice. 

In wondrous harmonies. 
If I could only wander there, 

And find no noisome flies. 

I'd like to tread the wooded hills, 
Where song birds have their haunts. 

And fill the air with minstrelsy, 
That ethic souls enchants. 

If I could only be assured 
There were no pesky ants. 

Oh, I would leave the ways of rnan. 

Hedged in by walls of binck, 
With odors choleric and foul. 

That make me faint and sick. 
If I could know I were immune 

From onslaughts of the tick. 

Yes, I would leave the city's noise, 

Its dingy, crowded flats. 
Surrender all to sordid souls. 

To fools and owls and bats. 
And hie me to the forests, but— 

Mosquitoes, also gnats. 

J' ^ 



WHAT CAME oF IT. 

There was a girl who sucked her thumb. 
Who long continued deaf and dumb 
To scoldings of her gentle ma. 
And warnings of her loving pa. 
They tied a rag around her hand, 
With many an earnest reprimand ; 



39 



They put it in a gunny sack, 

And tied her hand behind her back, 

And in their sorrow deep and ire, 

They threatened her with whippings dire. 

But all their efforts were in vain ; 

She sucked it still with might and main ; 

And finding they could never scare 

Her into quitting, or ensnare, 

They settled down in sheer despair. 

And oh the troubles that did come 

To all the inmates of that home ! 

The mother went off in a fit, 

And has not yet come out of it. 

One brother ran to Mexico ; 

The other joined a minstrel show ; 

The little sister cried and cried, 

And slowly pined away and died ; 

The father took to drinking rum ; 

These dread disasters all did come. 

Because this girl would suck her thii mh. 






MAN MAY FORGET. 

Man may forget the wisdom set 
In sayings of great scholars ; 

He may forget the friend he met 
Who lent him fifty dollars. 

He may forget the darling pet 
He loved in youth so dearly ; 

He may forget the sore regret 
When she said "no" severely. 

He may forget, and never let 
Life's troubles longer goad him ; 

He may forget the heavy debt 

That some one long has owed him. 

He may forget when sore beset, 
That he's a miserable sinner ; 

But you can bet he won't forget 
The time to go to dinner. 



40 



THE TYPO AND HIS PfPE. 

The long, long day thru summer's heat, 
The long, long day thru winter's cold. 

Demurely he sits in his lowly seat, 
With a steady hand and a spirit bold. 

And he fills his galley with lines of type, 

And slowly rises and fills his pipe. 

He touches the keys witli his finger tips, 
And down the matrices swiftly glide. 

And in the corners of his pale lips 
A smile of comfort essays to hide. 

Because his galley is filled with type. 

And he has a chance to fill his pipe. 

The wheels go round with a jolt and jerk. 
And the pot of metal sends out fts heat. 
But the linotypist bends to his work. 

And this is the thing that keeps him sweet- 
He knows when his galley is filled with type. 
He then can arise and fill his pipe. 

Explain, pipe dreamers, some pleasant day. 
So a poor old fogy can comprehend, 

What is the charm in the cob or clay, 
Tho redolent with nicotine blend. 

That makes a typo fill up his pipe, 

Each time he fills his galley with type. 



THE COST OF IT. 

What does it cost to live ? 

What does it cost to die ? 
Who can an answer give 

That will not make us sigh ? 

When you have paid for rent, 

Taxes, insurance, grub. 
Death may invade your tent — 

There is where comes the rub. 

Doctors have heavy bills. 
Surgeons a costly knife ; 

Matters it not if pills 
Poison the current of life. 



41 



If the grim monster comes, 

What are your assets, pray ? 
Hardly sufficient crumbs 

Hunger of mice to stay. 

And if your purse contains 

Some of the shining dust, 
All with your "last remains" 

Goes to the coffin trust. 

What of your wife and child, 

Left in a cold, hard world ? 
Does not your brain go wild. 

With such emotions whirled ? 

Merciful God on high, 

What would we mortals do, 
If we were forced to buy 

Mansions above the blue ? 

CLEAN UP YOUR OWN BACK YARD. 

There are filthy places about your home. 

That will keep you busy enough ; 
So let your neighbor's affairs alone, 

And cart off your own old stuff. 
If you would stand well in your neighborhood. 

And high in the people's regard, 
Get busy, old man, get busy right now, 

And clean up your own back yard. 

Tour neighbor may not be all he claims ; 

He may have bad habits galore ; 
Get an old X-ray and examine yourself. 

You will likely find many more ; 
Your sinful habits may be so bad 

As to make you by many abhorred ; 
Get busy, old man, get busy today, 

And clean up your own back yard. 

What a lovely place this world would be, 

If every last mother's son, 
Would take a rake and a fine tooth comb. 

And begin at earliest dawn 
To cleanse his premises in and out, 

His home life and alley and sward, 
And cart his garbage far out of sight, 

And clean up his own back yard. 



42 



A COSTLY PAINTING. 

There was once a man of small renown, 

Who lived in a boisterous country town. 

Of perhaps a hundred people or more, 

With three saloons and a country store. 

This man desired no celebrity. 

But a painter of curious skill was he. 

He was a man of a large estate, 

But his love for painting became so great. 

That all his hardly and slow-earned wealth 

Was gradually squandered as if by stealth. 

His surplus money went dime after dime, 

Then all his possessions, after a time, 

Till he had no roof to cover his head, — 

No home to shelter the woman he wed : 

And all that should have been dear to his heart 

Was sacrificed to his costly art. 

He did not paint like an Angelo, 

For the centuries that should come and go. 

Nor did he picture the landscape fair. 

With mountains distant and high in air ; 

Nor beauteous lake with shimmer and sheen. 

All fringed and gloried with groves of green. 

There was for this man no silent charm, 

As in old Landseer, for creature form : 

Nor bird, nor beast, nor sparkling rill. 

Were ever objects of his rare skill. 

He did not paint for a glorious name. 

To be writ high up on the scroll of fame. 

No "water-colors" did he ever use ; 

No time with these did he waste or abuse. 

Long years he wrought at the arduous task. 

And what the picture, do I hear you ask? 

'Twas a costly picture, it took a mint 

Of money to paint it tint on tint ! 

The picture ! yes, I will now disclose, — 

It was a very red, red rose. 

That blossomed out on the end of his nose. 

The pigments he used year after year. 

Were rum and whiskey and gin and beer. 

Tho in it the rainbow and sunset blent, 

He could not have sold it for one red cent. 

And as he reeled up and down the street. 

The naughty boys would tbis song repeat.— 

It cost $10,000 to paint that rose 

On the end of that poor drunkard's nose. 



43 



- A SCHOOL OF PATIENCE. 

When you approach the telephone 

To tell the call-girl on her throne, 

To give you number so and so, 

Just ring the phone-bell sweet and low. 

And if she answers not your call. 

Do not begin to loudly bawl, 

And give the bell another jerk — 

Let patience have her perfect work. 

If waiting long you ring again, 
Don't turn it with your might and main. 
But turn it gently as the breeze 
Disports among the leafy trees ; 
For this delay there may be cause ; 
Remember, in sweet woman's jaws 
The conversation microbes lurk — 
Let patience have her perfect work. 

Again perhaps you ring the bell ; 
No answer comes. You say — oh, well, 
Don't say it — bite your under lip ; 
Let no discourteous utterance slip ; 
Don't try to thwart or conquer fate ; 
Just learn to labor and to wait ; 
Do not, I pray, retort or quirk — 
Let patience have her perfect work. 

Again you ring and ring and ring ; 
Your brain begins to whirl and swing ; 
But like old Baal long time ago 
The phone-girl answers not "hello!" 
Now is the time to show your grit ; 
Just quietly and tamely quit ; 
Fold up your phone-door like a Turk — 
Patience has had her perfect work. 

Some say there's no word 

That rhymes with Czolgosz, 
But that's a mistake. 

And simply all bosz ; 
There are plenty of rhymes. 

But no poetry, by gosz, 
In the name or the man, 

And that is no josz. 



THE RULING PASSION. 

A Kansan can live without dew, rain or snow, 
In an air never moistened by vapors ; 

But in city or town does anyone know 
Of one who can live without papers ? 

He reads them at morning, at noon and at night. 

By gaslight and lamplight and tapers ; 
He's anxious to know all about every fight, 

That's cussed or discussed in the papers. 

And if "he's cut off" because of arrears. 

He goes straight and borrows his neighbor's, 

And bobs up serenely all eyes and ail ears, 
Absorbing the news from the papers. 

Mrs. Nation may smash up the joints and saloons, 
And Leavenworth burn all her "nagers"! 

And all the crops fail down to peanuts and prunes, 
A Kansan is bound to have papers. 

The tempest may roar and the torrent come down. 
The cyclone may cup awful capers ; 

But high on the heap of the wind-stricken town, 
The Kansan sits reading the papers. 



A CHICKEN PIE. 

Ye good folks of Chetopa, 
Give ear unto my song, 

Which if not wise or witty, 
Will not be very long. 

Our city boasts a preacher 
Who IS in doctrines sound 

An Anak in proportions, — 

His weight two hundred pound. 

He hates all kinds of folly, 
But tries to love the sinner — 

Besides, he loves most dearly 
A chicken for his dinner. 

One morn he went forth slily 
To his coop with foul intent. 

Where sat the hen, not dreaming 
What the smiling parson meant. 



45 



With silent hands he seized her, 
V/hen, lo ! out came her tail, 

And the chicken slipped out quickly 
Thru a hole in a broken rail. 

Away went that old chicken 
In double-quick 'round the church 

Not much was the parson going 
To be left thus in the lurch. 

As his Dutch rose higher and higher- 
He pulled his stove-pipe down. 

And began a race as thrilling 
As Gilpin's, of world renown. 

Still faster ran the chicken, 

On its way from street to street. 

Behind on came the parson 
With faster flying feet. 

As onward ran the chicken 
And behind the parson flew. 

Now scores of men and women 
Came out the scene to view. 

He lost his shining "beaver" — 
For this he cared not a fig ; 

But all his patience left him, 
When flying went his wig. 

But onward went pursuer. 
And onward went pursued ; — 

Not thus would run a preacher 
After other kind of food. 

Long while the race seemed equal — 
At last the scale was turned — 

And the parson seized the chicken. 
For which his hands had burned. 

Alas for that old chicken. 

She shortly had to die ; 
The following day for dinner 

We had a chicken-pie. 

Now, chickens, all take warning. 
Keep out of a preacher's way, 

Or with your bones all meatless 
Tou will ever rue the day. 

A word to you, dear parsons, 

If you would never fail 
To have a hen for dinner, 

Don't catch her by the tail. 



46 



THE MAN WITH A PULL. 



The world is full of all kinds of men, 

Men little known and of world-wide fame ; 
Men most noble and pure, and then 

Men devoid of all sense of shame ; 
And some are almost as wise as the gods, 

And some would rank far below the fool ; 
But the greatest of them in the world by odds. 

Is the man who has the political pull. 

With patriotic and lofty zeal 

He may have served in the civil war. 
And because to his country's welfare leal 

His body may bear many a battle scar ; 
His loyalty to his native land 

May be a yard wide and all pure wool ; 
He has no ground upon which to stand 

With the man who has a political pull. 

His character may be good and true, 

A man with more than a local fame, 
And with a record no mortal knew 

To bring discredit upon his name. 
Of kindly deeds and of noble aims 

His whole life long may have been full. 
But gifts and graces present no claims 

O'er the man who has a political pull. 

He may have labored for many a year 

To build up and boom his native town, 
And shared with his neighbors the hope and fear 

Of fortune's smile or misfortune's frown. 
In all his dealing with fellow men 

He may have followed the golden rule, 
But he is not in it even then 

With the man who has a political pull. 

Political wires are full of crooks. 

But they are lengthy and tough and strong ; 
And they have very questionable looks, 

As they tow a seeker for offlce along ; 
And as one watches the movements queer, 

His intellect must be very dull. 
If he fails to see with a vision clear 

The man in the background who has the pull. 



47 



MOTHER, COME HOME. 

(Tune: Father, Dear Father, Come Home 
With Me Now.) 

Mother, dear mother, come home from the club, 

You promised to come home at five ; 
This club business, father in anger just said. 

He can not much longer survive ; 
He swore at us children and called us poor brats. 

And furiously kicked poor old Tray, 
And said since these crazy card parties began 

The devil is surely to pay. 

CHORUS: 

Come home, come home, come home, 
Dear mother, please mother, come home. 

Mother, dear mother, come home from the club. 

You told me that you would come soon ; 
You won in the game, are you strll in a fight, 

And pulling hair over the spoon ? 
I've labored so hard to tidy the house ; 

Our supper of cold hash is done. 
And papa declares if you do not start now, 

He'll come for you quick with a gun. 



THE MILL OF LIFE. 

This life is one continual grind. 
With some wheels out of gear ; 

Dust from the old mill makes us blind. 
Its roaring dulls the ear. 

The ancient Adam in us wakes, 

From cranium to the feet, 
When as his toll the miller takes 

The finest of our wheat. 

And when death strikes the balance sheet 

And blots us from the list. 
There's little left but chaff and cheat, 

As our part of the grist. 



48 



VINEGAR PIE. 

'Twas in the days of long ago, 

When in the mouth the undertow 

Of gastric juice was strong and full, 

And appetite was never dull, 

That mother made with curious art 

A pastry that should joy impart 

To all of low degree or high. 

And which she christened Vinegar Pie. 

Its contents were to me unknown, 

But neath that crust of fine brown tone, 

There was a flavor rare for saint 

And sinner, when with hunger faint, 

A mingling of the sweet and sour, 

That touched the spot with tickling power. 

And brought stomachic ecstasy 

To head and tail of family. 

At high pie counters I have sat, 
And tasted Lincoln thick and fat, 
And apple, rhubarb, peach and mince. 
And even custard, cherry, quince. 
But never since my boyhood days. 
With knife or fork or spoon did rafse 
To opening mouth such rarity 
As my dear mother's vinegar pie. 



ROSA AND MARY. 

Rosa Bonheur was an artist — 
Artist worthy of the name ; 

Painted in their grace and beauty 
Animals both wild and tame. 

Mary Walker was a doctor. 

Egotistic, very swell ; 
Office full of vile concoctions. 

Chief of which was calomel. 

Rosa, in man's handy clothing. 
Showed no pertness, not a speck 

Mary had another object — 
Make the people rubberneck. 



49 



OLD TWENTY PER CENT. 

Old Twenty Per Cent. 
Had much money lent. 
And 'twas his delight 
Far into the night 
Beside his old trunk 
To lie on a bunk 
Of blankets and straw. 
To hear his notes draw. 

He hears not the son:r 
Borne sweetly along 
Of night bird near by, 
Or its mate's low reply ; 
No sounds are so sweet 
In woodland or street 
As the music that floats 
From twenty per cent notes. 

No sunset's bright bars 
Does he love, or the star:^ ; 
He sees not the moon 
Rising high at night's noon. 
Like a shepherdess fair 
Herding cloud flocks in air ; 
His eye is intent 
On twenty. per cent. 

The charm of a flower 
Hath no hidden power 
O'er his spirit to win 
One emotion within 
Of ecstatic delight. 
Marred and dim is his sight 
By a mind only bent 
On twenty per cent. 

As he clutches his gold 

With hands thin and cold 

A visitor comes 

Like a ghost from the tombs, 

And carries him where, 

I know not, nor care ; 

His debtors all fix 

His home on the Styx. 



50 



DON'T YOU DO IT. 

Do not think that in life's battle. 
With its ceaseless din and rattle. 
You can conquer vast dominions 
Soaring as on eagle's pinions, 
On your hands no taint of moil, 
From earth's honest ways of toil. 

If you do it. 

You will rue it. 
Pegasus mount if you must ; 
Better not the old horse trust. 

Don't go upward like a rocket 
With no ballast in your pocket 
But a gold and silver lining ; 
Brief wiU be your brilliant shining ; 
Like a stick to earth descending. 
Buried in the dust your ending. 

If you do it. 

You will rue it. 
If your light burns not so fast, 
'Twill burn brighter at the last. 

If you ever think of trying 

To achieve success by lying, 

You will find you are mistaken, 

When of honest men forsaken, 

And will wiser grow and humbler, 

When you're turned down like a tumbler. 

If you do it, 

You will rue it. 
Better shun all forms of evil, 
Tell the truth and shame the devil. 

If you'd climb the hill of science, 
Yoii must have first self-reliance ; 
Do not make strides like a giant, 
Tho your limbs are strong and pliant. 
And do not commit the folly 
Of ascending on a trolley. 

If you do it. 

You will rue It. 
Up a hill you cannot run ; 
Step by step the summit's won. 

If for fame you are aspiring, 

With a strong, unquenched desiring. 



51 



'Tis an iridescent bubble, 
Bring-ing only toil and trouble, 
And will compensate your thirsting 
In the end by simply — bursting. 

If you do it, 

You will rue it. 
Fame is but the meteor's flare, 
Lighting up the midnight air. 

Have you loyal friends, and loving. 
Often their affection proving, 
By their many acts of kindness. 
Showing to your follies blindness, 
Let your love then never alter, 
Nor in your devotion falter. 

If you do it, 

You will rue it. 
In a world so dark and cold. 
There are no friends like the old. 

Do not trust too much in riches ; 
She's a goddess that bewitches ; 
With you now and gone tomorrow, 
Leaving you chagrin and sorrow ; 
Hearts, when robbed of earthly treasure, 
Only sing in minor measure. 

If you do it, 

You will rue it. 
Better place your wealth above. 
And grow rich in lore anc love. 

WILLIAM AND JERRY. 

Sitting in his underwear, 

William Jennings ceased 
Talking politics awhile. 

Till his pants were creased. 

Jerry was a wiser man ; 

With his sockless toes. 
Lifted Prince Hal high in air. 

Dangling silken hose. 

Simpson, tho his shins were bare, 

Got there just the same ; 
Bryan with his bagless pants 

Does not bag the game. 



52 



PASS A RESOLUTION 

When some great work's to le done, 

Or reforms are needed, 
Or some big achievement won, 

For which men have pleaded ; 
Or there i a mighty call 

For an institution, 
That will be a boon t<) all — 

Pass a resolution. 

If one has not been a shirk 

In the line of duty, 
But has always done his work, 

With an eye to beauty ; 
To the sum of human weal 

Made his contribution. 
Put upon the deed this seal — 

Pass a resolution. 

If a little popinjay. 

Thru some foolish boosting. 
Gets inordinately gay, 

By too lofty roosting, 
And needs for his swelling crown 

Drastic absolution, 
With a thump just let him down — 

Pass a resolution. 

Hot air now is very cheap. 

If old Sol's the heater ; 
High positions bad men reap 

Thru the gay repeater ; 
Do not let your feelings rile. 

Have a coiiocution ; 
Smoothe it over with a smile — 

Pass a resolution. 

All our rights are trampled on 

By the upper classes ; 
We are not much better than 

Antiquated asses ; 
We make speeches very fine. 

Long on elocution. 
Then with countenance benign — 

Pass a resolution. 



53 



THE BEAUTIES OF GAS. 

So strange it seems to me, 
How it has come to pass 

That not one poet sings 
The beauties of our gas. 

They sing about the birds. 
And trees, and flowers, and grass 

And art and fame and love. 
But never touch on gas. 

They tell us of the man 

Sloping with a lass, 
Whose light has been blown out — 

Why not turn on the gas ? 

And at the "white man's load" 
Many have made a pass ; 

Could we not lighten this 
By turning on the gas ? 



I KNEW IT WOULD RAIN. 

I Icnew it would rain, for all day long, 
The flies were biting my head and ears. 

Those aural appendages made for song, — 
That head laid bare by the barber's shears. 

I knew it would rain, for all day long. 

My rheumatic knee gave me trouble and pain, 
And the corns barometrical on my toes. 

As well as the ftelds of corn cried "rain." 

I knew it would rain, for all day long, 
I sighed and sighed for a Mother Hubbard ; 

I cared not a fig for her hungry dog. 

Nor how bare and empty was her cupboard. 

I knew it would rain, for all day long. 
The perspiration rolled from my brow, 

As I wrote — but hark ! behold the dust ! 
"I told you so;" it is raining now. 



54 



TAKE UP THE PRINTER'S BURDEN. 

Take up the printer's burden — 

It is an awful load, 
And gathers weight the farther 

He travels down the road ; 
Bills payable in plenty, 

Subscribers in arrears — 
The troubles that beset him 

Would drive a bust to tears. 

Take up the printer's burden — 

A form knocked into pi. 
The editor arrested 

For publishing a lie ; 
A typo full of joint juice. 

The foreman far away. 
Upon some big excursion — 

The devil is to pay. 

Take up the printer's burden — 

At last the paper's out : — 
John Smith's wife had a baby. 

Two rowdies had a bout ; 
Brown's children had the measles. 

Miss Flippy's dog is dead, 
Miss Tattle had a quilting — 

And not a word was said. 

Take up the printer's burden — 

He puffs the old dead town ; 
He calls the women beauties. 

And lies just like a clown ; 
He lauds the city fathers. 

And prints their pedigrees ; 
They pay him back by cutting 

liis publication fees. 

Take up the printer's burden — 

Give him a little rest ; 
With all his imperfections 

He doubtless does his best ; 
About his knavish neighbors 

He tells not half that's true, 
Believing that the devil 

Will sometime get his due. 



POLITICAL TIDDLE-DE-WINKS. 

Said Mr. Blarney to Mr. Blinks, 

Let's play a game of tiddle-de-wlnks. 

Put the caucus cup on the table square. 

And we'll sit here and our foes sit there. 

We'll work our chips as best we may. 

And we'll see which side will win the day. 

We'll take the blacks, our foes the biues ; 

You mind your "ps", and I'll mind my "qs". 

The side that fills the caucus cup, 

Will be the victors when the game is up. 

Now work your men with a nimble thumb, 

And to this say go, and to that say come. 

They're made of wood and have no sense ; 

You call them hither or drive them hence. 

You touch them thus, and they go up so. 

And into the caucus cup they go. 

Upon some men you bear on tlius, 

And in they go without fume or fuss. 

You press some little, you press some much, 

It mostly depends on the way you touch. 

Some one will jump contrariwise. 

And over the cup he wildly flies. 

Just play him with a stronger hand. 

And soon in the cup he will squarely land. 

Some men are touchy and hard to please. 

And must be taken by slow degrees. 

Just hold a careful and steady hand ; 

You'll soon have them all at your command. 

And in due time will the caucus cup 

Be filled to the brim, and the game be up. 

LATTER DAY LOGIC. 

Cold is simply lack of heat — 

Absence of caloric ; 
Maxim one need not repeat. 

Truth that's not theoric. 

Night is absence of the day, 

Darkness lack of light ; 
Does it follow as some say. 

Wrong is lack of right ? 

I am not a sinner then, 

Even if not good ; 
Just a fog upon the fen, 

Tree devoid of wood. 



56 



LOOKING BACKWARD. 

(Read at Baker University's 50th Year 
Jubilee, 1909, in behalf of Class of 1866.) 

With smiles for those responding "Here", 

We answer to your order ; 
But first we drop a silent tear 

For those "across the border." 

The class of eighteen sixty-six 
Has not yet solved the question. 

What lies beyond the river Styx, — 
Because of good digestion. 

And now about that class of three 

We care to say but little ; 
We keep the law of primacy. 

With every jot and tittle. 

We fought the wars "In Galliam," 

Sought honors "De Corona"; 
A-foot we trudged, devoid of shame; — 

The Indians rode the "Pony." 

We did not wear the cap and gown. 

With varying attaches ; 
And thus conceal a hairless crown,— 

On trousers glaring patches. 

The goal in games we sought to win 
Was down in "Shinbone Alley," 

And did not cause the dust and din. 
As does the pigskin sally. 



That ancient class did not 

Unusual gifts or graces ; 
One prominent uncomeliness 

Is seen upon our faces. 

Sometimes it seems that nature errs; 

With such a lack of roses. 
And seas of scentless cockle-burrs. 

To give such ample noses. 

'Tis true they make no blow of art. 
Nor pose they as grand-standers ; 

And yet 'tis said old Bonaparte 
By this sign chose commanders. 



57 



Well, be that matter as it may, 

Nor is our boasting hollow, 
It fell to us to show the way 

For greater men to follow. 

Like all young folk we had our dreams, 

In days we now call olden ; 
We must acknowledge that their beams 

Were copper-hued, not golden. 

We rarely dreamed of penal pain, 

Because of being a sinner ; 
Our sleep was troubled how to gain 

The cash for next day's dinner. 

And if next day, as matters stood. 
Our meals were somewhat lighter, 

Because of inner dearth of food. 
Our pants we buckled tighter. 

The staple diet once was Rice, 
With adjuncts corn and "tater"; 

Then followed dishes Sweet with spice ; 
Quayle graced the table later. 

We had no Molliecoddles then. 

And very few Jim Dandies ; 
Our paths were thru wild moor and fen. 

Up steeps as rough as Andes. 

We built our castles in the air. 
With turret, dome and portal ; 

But rarely dreamed of mansions fair; — 
Like you, we too, were mortal. 

Likewise the robe of righteousness 

Was too remote a matter ; 
About a decent Sunday dress 

Was our chief social clatter. 

And in those days of want and drouth. 

And scenes of conflict gory, 
We did not think, less dream, about 

Young Baker's future glory. 

Her sons by fortune, chance or fate, 

Are surely in ascendant ; 
In firmament of church and state 

They shine as stars resplendent. 



58 



Her daughters too we know full well 
Are brilliant, wise and tender ; 

But over one they threw no spell, 
By voice or eye of splendor. 

The memories of the "loved and lost" 

Arise like ghosts to vex us ; 
His matrimonial lines got crossed — 

He won a maid from Texas. 

'Tis hoped those sons who made the incline 

To points of exploitation, 
Paid not their fare by trolley line. 

But went by gravitation. 

One fluttered to a bishop's chair. 

In Methodistic undress; 
Another politician rare 

Just humped himself to Congress. 

Aboard the band-vehicle climbed, 
O'er side-piece or the end-gate. 

Another who is cocked and primed 
For hotshot in the Senate. 

A host of variegated lights. 

Without the sound of tuba. 
Have mounted up the giddy heights. 

From Oregon to Cuba. 

We find them in the foreign land. 

Belaboring the heathen ; 
May they his appetite withstand, 

Nor in his pot be seethin'. 

Around this Kansas Jericho 
A host their horns are tootin'. 

But walls fall not as long ago, — 
They preach too highfalutin. 

There are D. Ds., and Ph. Ds., 

And so on infinitum ; 
And some, when stripped of these degrees, 

'Tis very hard to sight 'em. 

Toward places high, with hearts elate. 
Some strive with swift desire ; 

Let those who go at auto gait. 
Beware a punctured tire. 



59 



Just so they g-et there, I remark^ 

Not by the river briny, 
Nor by the ways so vain and dark. 

As did the man from China. 

No flies are on the Baker man ; 

At least they do not spot him ; 
If on him one your optics scan, 

Just swat him, slyly swat him. 

Be this our last good word, all hail. 
To every son and daughter ; 

May you be head and never tail. 
Beloved Alma Mater. 

Until we reach our last long home, 
Green-thatched in God's lone acre. 

Forget not, friends, where'er you roanfi. 
Old Baldwin and Dear Baker. 



THE SAME OLD LOVE STORY. 
In Three Chapters. 



The same old girl, 
The same old smile ; 

The same old curl, 
The same old wile. 

n. 

The same old song, 
The same old vow ; 

The same old tongue. 
The same old row. 

in. 

The same old part, 
The same old ache ; 

The same old heart 
With one new break. 



60 



"BOARDING 'ROUND." 

I look back over some forty odd years, 
When life was a medley of hopes and tears, 
When, in ways pre-normal yet dutiful, 
I won a crown teaching district school — 
A crown that martyrs alone can wear. 
When safely housed in the mansions fair. 

It was in the autumn, and everywhere 

The lazy gossamers hung in air ; 

The birds of summer had winged their flight 

To groves un withered by winter's blight ; 

The leaves of forests were brown and sere. 

And sadly spoke of the dying year, 

And on my spirit a sadness fell. 

That amateur teachers know full well. 

The school house stood in a shady nook. 
Beneath scrub oaks, by a sluggish brook, 
A lonely place, hemmed in by the hill3 
Where lurked the germs of fever and chills 
'Twas made of logs, pointed up with lime, 
A decent house for that early time. 

I need not tell of the long, long days. 

The giddy youths, and their prankish ways ; 

The weeks that dragged their slow length along, 

Like an Alexandrine line in song. 

So inharmonious and without grace. 

Just to butcher rhyme and fill out space 

All teachers experience the inward pain. 

The task of teaching the dullard's brain ; 

The voice half truth, other half pretense, 

The eye that plainly feigned innocence ; 

The urchin drawling his a, b, c ; 

Some trying to master the Rule of Three ; 

The look of pride in the lad or lass, 

Who went up head in the spelling class ; 

And how you smothered the rising smile. 

When some green boy, untinctured with guile, 

Who sipped but lightly from learning's cup. 

Defined addition as "adding up." 

While in those earlier Kansas days 
There was much at fault and little to praise, 
Yet even then we were "up to snuff" 
In wireless stunts, and other such stuff. 



In that fai' day, now you well may laug-h. 
It was called the ocular telegraph. 
Quicker than Cupid's invisible dart, 
Love's messages flew from heart to heart, 
And tho a student of occult laws, 
I saw the effect, but not the cause. 

The brightest spots I can now rec-ill. 

In the weary months of that long, long fall, 

That gave relief to my soul's duress. 

Were the welcome noon and the glad recess. 

And mercenary was I, do you say? 

Just wait till I tell you the meager pay : 

'Twas forty dollars for a three months' school, 

And board around, here this was the rule. 

Oh where can adequate words be found 

To tell the beauties of boarding 'round ? 

'Twas hog and hominy, hominy, hog — 

The worst of food for a pedagogue. 

'Twas beans and pork, and then pork and beans; 

In early spring it was pork and greets. 

It was hog at morning, and pig at nis.ht. 

Until it seemed I would squeal outright. 

The only studies my taste would suit 

Were low hog Latin and deep cube root. 

At noon time acorns and nuts I'd hunt. 

And at length my words were only a grunt. 

My back grew bristles, and my nose grew long. 

And "Root, Hog, or Die" was my daily song. 

But really, friends, all the truth can't be told. 

Or a wondrous tail I would thus unfold. 

And even today in my person and face. 

Such food effects you can readily trace. 

And never again while the world turns round. 

Will I follow teaching and board around. 

And never again while on earth I jog. 

Will I be guilty of eating hog. 



Jfcj* 



There is a young man in Chanute 
Who's certainly on the wrong route ; 
More friends he'd acquire. 
If he'd play less the lyre. 
And occasionally play on the lute. 



62 



THE THANKSGIVING GOBBLER. 

'Twas just before Thanksgiving day, 

And howling winds swept o'er the way ; 

A turkey gobbler sat on high, 

With big tears flowing from each eye. 

He knew his race was almost run, 

And ere would sink the morrow's rfun. 

That to the block he would be led. 

And there he'd lose his lofty head, 

And then his plumes of lustrous jet, 

Would in the scalding pot be wet. 

And he be plucked of every feather,- 

And legs be fastened with a tether. 

And that his organs all, internal. 

Would be removed by hands infernal. 

And that his gizzard aiid his liver 

Would be dismembered by a cleaver, 

And mixed with eggs and flour and butter. 

With many a stir and splash and splutter ; 

With quantities of bread most stale 

He would be stuffed from neck to tail, 

And in that oven hot as Hades 

Be basted — blistered by the ladies. 

Then over him stuffed full of dressing, 

Man, Christian man, would ask a blessing. 

And then proceed with foul intent. 

With knife in hand and body bent. 

To cut and tear him limb from limb, 

Like cannibals, unkempt and grim ? 

Then by the hour would eat and eat. 

Till gorged upon his dainty meat. 

No wonder now you roost so high. 

With big tears flowing from each eye. 

But turkey gobbler, on that tree. 

Cease your complaint, and list to me. 

My strutting friend, have you not heard 

That you are now our nation's bird ? 

We claim the eagle, it is true. 

Who soars aloft in ether blue ; 

But he holds sway in time of war. 

When danger threatens from afar ; 

'Twas he who made the lion roar. 

And sent him howling from our shore ; 

But you are now our bird of peace ; 

You represent war's glad surcease ; 

You stand for all that's good in life. 

In your glad reign we know no strife. 



63 



Our governors and President 

Accord to you the compliment 

Of proclamation's special call. 

To gather at the home or hall ; 

And round your savory form we meet. 

Our friends and kindred dear to greet. 

And tho you are laid on a platter, 

My noble bird, what does it matter ? 

'Tis true, we all must soon or late 

Suffer alike the common fate. 

But you. when you give up your breath, 

Are highly honored in your death. 

What boots it that the eagle's eye 

Looks at the sun in yonder sky ? 

What profit that he builds his nest 

High up upon the mountain's crest ? 

What matters that he soars aloft, 

And leads victorious armies oft? 

To social joys and pleasures blind. 

He brings no gladness to mankind. 

Upon this day that crowns the year. 

You bring to hearts and homes good cheer. 

And on the joyful festal board. 

You are acknowledged king and lord. 

While thus his praise I did outpour, 
The turkey gobbler wept no more. 
He spread his tail and wiped nis eye. 
And down he flew from perch so high, 
And on the block laid down his head ; 
"Bring on your axe," was all he said. 

^> tSf' 

QUIT YOUR GRUMBLING. 

There's more sunshine far than shadow 

In this world of ours ; 
Or upon the fertile meadow 

There would be no flowers. , 

Every grumble brings a wrinkle 

On your cheek or brow 
And your groanings only sprinkle 

On your head more snow. 

Cease your whining, stop youi pouting, 

Brush away that tear ; 
Dance a jig, or take an outing 

Drink a mug of — cheer. 



THE JEFFERS CHORUS. 

There are things we well remember, 
As approaches life's December. 
In all lives there is a spring-timo. 
And it might be called a sing-time, 
When the days were filled with music, 
If we urchins were not too sick 
From a mess of unripe apples. 
That required some pills or capsules. 

When the frost had left the pasture. 
Frogs would louder sing and faster ; 
And gave music that was charming, 
As the weather kept a-warming. 
How those water imps would sing lays 
In the evening of those spring days. 
Fill the air about and o'er us, 
With sweet sounds — like Jeffers' chorus. 

On the breaking up of winter. 
They knew better than a printer, 
Tho a clever one, indeed, or 
Any mustached chorus leader. 
As they loudly croaked together, 
How to make notes on the weather. 
Some duets sang, some a solo. 
Some high tenor, some low basso ; 
Some, the old ones, sang like thunder, 
Some on tenth line added under. 

On a log was an instructor. 

Acting as a class conductor ; 

How his frogly bosom swelled out, 

As his voice stentorian yelled out. 

Over pond and lake and river. 

Setting forest leaves a-quiver. 

His baton in air uplifting, 

Clouds above asunder rifting, 

And at every chorus ending. 

Called "repeat," the night air rending. 

As we enter Memory's portal. 
Music charms with voice immortal ; 
Earlier days are brought before us. 
Listening to this Jeffers chorus. 
And our hearts are set a-singing. 
Thru and thru with old songs ringing. 



65 



In those years of youth and beauty 
Study was an irksome duty. 
When bright eyes were smiling at us 
Thru some trellised little lattice. 
From which came a voice so tender. 
Of a maiden fair and slender. 

'twas sweet to listen to her, 

And with honeyed words to woo her ; 
To resist her charms we couldn't ; 
How we wooed her, but she wouldn't 
Still, e'en yet we hear her singing, 
Sweet and low, and ever bringing 
Waves of rarest music o'er us, 
Mingled with the bull frog chorus. 

1 have heard street-fakirs singing. 
Medicine and music flinging 

To the crowds of silly people. 
In the shades of learning's steeple ; 
But of all the music, charming, 
Low, or boisterous, or alarming, 
Frogs or sweethearts, organ grinders, 
Cornet bands or harvest binders. 
Birds or crickets, bees a-humming, 
Kid bands, jug-bands, fifing, drumming 
Give us Jeffers' splendid chorus, — 
Seas of sweet sounds rolling o'er us ; 
Low and soft, with rhythmic motion. 
Surging like the storm-swept ocean. 

Three cheers let us give in high notes, 

Verberating in our sore throats, 

For the leader of this chorus. 

Lifting high his baton o'er us, 

As a musical Colossus, 

Legs a-straddle, smiles bestowing. 

On the ladies, eyes aglowing. 

Like the ancient Orpheus throwing 

Notes as meteoric showers. 

And as Flora scatters flowers. 

Some day in the seventh heaven 
May a harp to him be given , 
Then his own horn loudly blowing. 
No more do, ra, me, ra, doing. 
But a leader of high chorus. 
Sung by seraphs soaring o'er us. 



66 



TELL ME, YE KANSAS WINDS, 



Tell me, ye Kansas winds 

That round my pathway blow. 
Is there nowhere a spot 

Where mortal man may go ; 
No island in the sea. 

No quiet, foreign clime. 
Where spring time comes without 

The dire house-cleaning time ? 
A cyclone struck me with terrific blow. 
And hurled me forty rods as it responded "No.' 



Oh, gentle birds that wing 

Far to the south your flight, 
Do you not know some land 

Of loveliness and light, 
Wliere beds are never sunned. 

And carpets are not "beat," 
Where "stretchers" are not known, 

And tacks don't prick your feet ? 
A large, dark bird then flew off with a "caw." 
And answered with a gruff, disdainful "Naw." 



And thou, resplendent moon. 

Sweet empress of the night, 
In whose mellifluous beams 

All lovers take delight. 
Do you not know a place — 

Some country east or west. 
Where from house-cleaning days 

Poor man can get a rest ? 
The moon then paler grew, and answered slow. 
As from behind a cloud it whispered "No." 

Oh, sweetener of my joys, 

My other, better self. 
Thou who has sworn to share 

My poverty or pelf. 
Do you not know some spot, 

On seen or unseen shore. 
Where these house-cleaning times 

Shall come again no more ? 
"Yes, yes," she said, "These tacks here must be driven 
You'll find that place sometime — perhaps — in heaven." 



67 



A PSALM OF WINTER. 

Tell me not in joyful numbers 
"Winter is a time of sport ; 

Bruin sucks his paw ana slumbers, 
While the arctic blasts cavort. 

How can folks be chic and cheery, 
When the frosts give ears a tweak, 

When their eyes get red and bleary, 
And their noses spring a leak? 

When the hustling, howling blizzard, 
With its dismal, deafening roar, 

Shrivels up your very gizzard. 
Till it hardly has a core ? 

When the head -piece feels a tumult, 
Thru the raging of the grip ; 

And the ladies suffer insult. 
When the chaps attack the lip ? 

How can any frisky maiden, 

Ric ochetting on the sleet. 
Think the winter pleasure laden. 

When her lover gets cold feet ? 

As the mercury hits zero. 
And the gas forgets to flow. 

Teeth a-chatter, he's a hero. 
Who phones not a tale of woe. 

Boys may greet until they tire 

Snowstorms with a song and shout ; 

As I hump up o'er my fire, 

One good spit would put it out. 

Icicles upon the whiskers 

Closely seal the mouth of truth, 

Bre it laughs at chilblain blisters. 
On the festive feet of youth. 

Tell me not of winter glories, 
I decline them all with thanks ; 

Brand them highfaluting stories, 
As I try to thaw my shanks. 



68 



ORIGIN OF FASHIONS. 

In Eden lived a woman fair, 

Of form and grace and beauty rare. 

Who had a longing to be wise. 

As well as fair in Adam's eyes ; 

And, listening to the tempter's voice, 

She made, alas, the fatal choice. 

Which brought in sin and all our woes, 

And chief among them wearing clothes. 

Alas, alas, the untold evil 

Of being too friendly with the devil. 

And yet dear Adam did not chide her ; 

But chose to linger still beside her ; 

Of course he did, for then, forsooth. 

When our forefather was a youth, 

In all the world there was but one 

Lone woman, and 'twas she or none, 

And she, I'd have you understand, 

The loveliest lady in the land. 

The Adam had no mother wit. 

He wisely made the best of it, 

And showed good sense as everyone knows, 

In getting for his wife some clothes ; 

And worldly fashions here began, 

With woman first, and then with man. 

Eve's garb was simple — fig leaves sewn 
Together in a way her own. 
Unlike the one on Madison Square, 
Poor woman, who had nothing to wear. 
Our mother Eve, as leaves decay. 
Must have a change of dress each day. 
And she, first lady of the land. 
Most certainly must understand 
The blandishments and arts of dress 
That would enhance her loveliness. 
'Tis true there only was one man 
The beauty of her garb to scan. 
Yet she alone is thoroughly good 
Who's true to her own womanhood ; 
And tho she had the primal right 
To him who loved her at first sight. 
She ever used the woman's art 
To hold the love of Adam's heart. 
This truth is plainly seen, perforce. 
Because he never sought divorce. 
Thus day by day her dress, no doubt. 
Was ornamented round about 



69 



With flounces, frills and furbelows. 
And scallops fine, and finer bows ; 
Some times cut bias, some times gored. 
Yet never scrimped, but always scored. 
Perhaps she also puffed her sleeves 
With Eden's biggest fig tree leaves. 

How tame was life — our mother Eve's — 
With only raiment made of leaves. 
True to her sex, don't think it strange. 
Her woman's heart cried for a change. 
This fig-leaf suit, 'tis known to all, 
Originated in the "Fall", 
And when the weather colder grew. 
And northern blasts around them blew. 
Dear Eve on Adam cast a smile. 
And asked him for a change of style. 
And Adam, like a noble spouse, 
Ne'er knit a wrinkle on his brows. 
Now sallied forth with bow in hand. 
And wandered thru the forest land, 
And animals, in protest mute. 
Were slain to make Eve's winter suit. 
And ever since that fatal day. 
It has been man's delight to slay 
The beast within his forest lair. 
And bird that wings its flight in air. 
That to fair woman's form and face 
There might be added charm and grace. 
We do not know what all she wore, 
What jewels rare she had in store ; 
Or how she dressed her auburn hair. 
Braided or banged or curled with care ; 
Or if she had a seal skin sacque. 
Or monstrous bustle on her back. 
One thing by inference we may know. 
She had, when wed, no fine trousseau. 
We cannot think she would descend 
To "kangaroo stoop" or "Grecian bend." 
We will not say a bent to evil. 
For that would exculpate the devil. 
She was a lady highly born. 
Or rather made, creation's morn, 
She had enough of natural bent 
That Adam's rib to her had lent. 
And apish ways would surely scorn ; 
And yet, and yet a woman, she, 
With woman's art in high degree. 
For see how easy 'twas to win 
Poor Adam to her ways of sin. 



But various disadvantages 

Beset her in those early days ; 

And first we note there was for lier 

No modiste or milliner ; 

No magazines with fashion plates 

Of gorgeous hats on empty pates ; 

She had no neighbors o'er the way 

To vie with her in fine array ; 

No church at which to show her bonnet, 

With flowers, and birds, and ribbons on it 

She never went to theaters, 

And heard the low, insulting jeers 

Of men who right behind her sat. 

And growled at her cathedral hat. 

Nor did dear Adam ever scold. 

At least it never has been told. 

And give his wife a look to kill. 

When he received her milliner's bill. 

Oh, happy husband ! happy wife ! 

To live thus without jar or strife. 

In course of time old Adam died. 

And Eve, poor Eve, she sighed and cried 

No husband now, oh, cruel fate, 

To tell her when her hat was straight. 

Or give each morn a sweet caress. 

Or button up her Sunday dress. 

in history, sacred or profane. 
No one has made the matter plain. 
How Eve, good mother of our race, 
Went to her final resting place. 
'Tis likely she was carried away 
V/ith some new fashion of the day. 

All honor to our mother Eve ; 

She's long been dead, we will not grieve. 

She had her virtues, not a few ; 

She set the fashions, we pursue ; 

She may have made some sad mistakes ; 

She may have followed fads and fakes ; 

The devil may have made her vain ; 

And she it was who first "raised Cain". 

She v/as our mother, and no shrew ; 

Then let us give her all her due. 

Remember this, she never ran 

From Adam with a handsomer man ; 

She never sang the bass in tunes ; 

She never wore the pantaloons. 



71 



TO DANDLE ON YOUR KNEE. 

When life is in the yellow leaf, 

And snow is in the air, 
And frosts of many winters touch 

To white the raven hair, 
There's naught that brings the springtime back. 

With all its joy and glee, 
As a lovely little grand child 

To dandle on your knee. 

Let Rockefeller have his oil. 

And all the wealth it brings ; 
'Tis said that riches fly away 

On rapid, hidden wings ; 
But as the years fly swiftly by. 

The sweetest thing to me 
Is a lovely little grand child 

To dandle on my knee. 

Oh Sun, move slowly in your course 

A-down the crimson west ; 
Hide not behind the curtains yet 

That bring me night and rest ; 
Prolong my life's declining years, 

With all the ecstasy 
Of a loving little grand child 

To dandle on my knee. 

BUILD A FENCE. 

Build a barbed wire fence of Hope 

Around each day ; 
Jump in, with a bounding lope, 

And therein stay. 

Do not tear your pantaloons. 

Or scratch your shin ; 
Let the grafters sing their tunes, — 
Don't let them in. 

If some nabobs scorn your style 

Do not sneer or scoff ; 
Do not wear a silly smile 

That won't come off. 



72 



MONKEY-PARROT FIGHT. 

Monkey, parrot, see them fight. 
Each contending he is right ; 
Bach a mighty battle-door. 
Spilling not a drop of gore. 
Charges after charges made — 
Truth forever in the shade. 
Now the parrot is on top, 
Monkey brings him down "kerflop.' 

Neither backs down on a dare ; 
Fur and feathers fill the air. 
Now we bet on fiery Stubbs, 
Then old Dawson knocks his tubs. 
Leaves him sprawling in the street. 
Soon again he's on his feet. 
Blacks the General's weather eye ; 
General then makes red hair fly. 

Hague Tribunal, get to work ; 
Pass up Chinese, Dago, Turk ; 
Send a delegation quick ; 
Bring the dove, if not too sick ; 
Judicate and arbitrate, 
Save the honor of the state ; 
Haste ye in an airship car, 
Come, pull off the dogs of war. 



AWAY WITH TROUBLE. 

TVhy this pitiable repining, 

Why this cloud upon your brow ; 

There is no excuse for whining. 
No occasion for a row. 

Do not think about your trouble. 
Cease your brooding over wrong 

Griefs will vanish like a bubble. 
If you lift your heart in song. 

Seek the aid of witty ladies. 
Gentlemen with jokes galore ; 

Tell your woes to go to Hades, 
And to bother you no more. 



73 



THAT LITTLE HATCHET, 

When he was young- and peart and bold, 
George Washington, in days of old. 

Possessed a little hatchet. 
For cutting down old cherry trees. 
Or barriers to our liberties. 

No implement could match it. 

John Bull came o'er, the big, round fop. 
To start a kingly junket shop. 

Ere he had time to thatch it, 
G. Washington came walking by, 
With blood and thunder in his eye. 

And smashed it with his hatchet. 

When manacles, upon the hand 
Of negroes in the southern land. 

Were clanking like a ratchet, 
A. Lincoln bristled up for fight. 
And hit the chain with all his might. 

And smashed it with his hatchet. 

The hatchet is a fell disease. 

And spreads abroad by slow degrees — 

The Nation seems to catch it. 
When any wrong stalks down the pike. 
The men as well as women like 

To smash it with a hatchet. 

>^ 

THE RIGHT OF WAY. 

Many years ago when only a child, 
I wandered off thru a forest wild. 
The tall grass waved in the summer air. 
My pathway was decked with flowers fair, 
Whose rich perfume the forest filled, 
And with their fragrance my senses thrilled. 
As leisurely I walked along. 
With joy in my heart, on my lips a song, 
A little animal stood in the way. 
With menacing look, and ready for a fray. 
I made him battle with stick and stone. 
But that sad day I shall ever bemoan. 
For the terrible ordor that forth was given. 
Made the atmosphere black, and reached to heaven. 
***** 

When I meet a skunk since that rueful day, 
I always accord him the "right of way." 



74 



GEN. FUNSTON. 

Frederick Funston is a daisy, 

Tho he was a little lazy- 
While at school ; 

Yet in fighting Phillipinos, 

Spanish hordes or rebel negroes, 
He's no fool. 

He won glory first in Cuba, 
But he did not hire a tuba 

Horn to blow, 
How he fought till sorely wounded, 
And his arms he never grounded 

To the foe. 

Ever ready was our Funston, 

For the rebels, when the sun shone, 

Or at night. 
He has not a heart of liver 
Who would swim a raging river 

For a fight. 

He is now a brigadier, 
And he feels a trifle freer. 

With his sword ; 
At the singing of a ditty 
He will take another city 

With its horde. 

Fight on, swim on Gen. Frederick, 
Till insurgents with their last kick, 

Cry enough ; 
And if Kansas is the donor 
Of some great and high-up honor. 

You're the stuff. 

A FEW DONT'S. 

Don't show literary blindness, 

By ignoring books ; 
Don't curd milk of human kindness. 

By contemptuous looks. 

Don't you make a god of money. 
Nor of good deeds brag ; 

Don't be with your jokes too funny. 
Do not chew the rag. 

Don't you be a toady croaking, 

On a rotten log ; 
Don't you eat till you are choking. 

Do not be a hog. 



75 



THE MASSES NOT ASSES. 

How Candidate Boyle 

Did labor and toil 
To blind and befuddle the masses ; 

A chick or a child 

Mig-ht thus be beguiled, 
But the people are not yet all asses. 

He talked and he talked, 
And across the stage walked, 

As he made his sophistical passes ; 
As he threw out his chaff, 
He made the folks laugh, 

That he should consider them asses. 

Many stories he told 

Some new and some old, 
vTo tickle the lads and the lassies. 

But to every one 

It was no little fun, 
He imagined his listeners were asses. 

Old Job had his boils. 

While in Satan's hard toils, 
His life was not sweet as molasses ; 

But amid all his pangs 

He heard no harangrues 
From braying political asses. 

Come again, Mr. Boyle, 

View our brave sons of toil. 
Look at them with 40-power glasses ; 

As man after man 

You carefully scan 
Please tell us how many are asses. 

There grew and bloomed a little poppy 

Upon a grassy little kopje ; 

A soldier with a leather belt. 

Came stalking o'er the verdant veld : 

And with a hand unknown to fear. 

He plucked the poppy for old Kru^er, 

And then he quickly went his way 

Across the veld and thru the vlei, 

A-tooting on his little harp. 

Back to his little German dorp. 



76 



SWAT THE FLY. 

Swat the fly ! 
Catch him on the run, 
In the shade or sun, 
Ere he has begun 

WTiizzing by. 

Swat the fly ! 
Take a steady aim ; 
Kill him, do not maim ; 
With a culprit's shame 

Let him die. 

Swat the fly ! 
On your shining pate. 
There the vile ingrate. 
As you rage with hate. 

Winks his eye. 

Swat the fly ! 
While you sit and eat. 
He takes up his beat, 
With his filthy feet,- 

On your pie. 

Swat the fly ! 
There the devil goes, 
Softly on his toes. 
Up that Roman nose. 

On the sly. 

Swat the fly ! 
This my last behest — 
Give the imp no rest ; 
Smite the noisome pest, 

Hip and thigh. 

«!» Jft 

There may be lack of moisture, 

A serious lack of rain ; 
There may be lack of garden sass 

A woeful lack of grain ; 
There may be lack of greenbacks, 

Of silver and of gold ; 
There may be lack of cattle 

And sheep within the fold ; 
But not till Gabriel's trumpet 

Shall make the welkin rumble 
Shall there ever be a lacking 

Of those who growl and grumble. 



77 



FOREVER ON THE WAG. 

There goes a girl, a silly girl, 

Ad own the public street ; 
She has a smile, a simple smile, 

For friends that she may meet. 
Some good young man, some fine young man. 

Soon after her would tag. 
But for the gum that keeps her jaw 

Forever on the wag. 

The gossip comes, the gossip goes — 

She sits or lies in wait. 
On trusting, unsuspecting friends 

Foul stories to relate ; 
Upon her neighbors' noble deeds 

She's never known to brag. 
But when it comes to faults her jaw 

Is ever on the wag. 

There goes a man, a filthy man, 

About his daily work. 
And from a plug of "Battle Ax" 

He bites off with a jerk 
A nauseating quid that makes 

His cheek look like a bag, 
And then that jaw, the lower jaw. 

Is ever on the wag. 

I see a man who thinks the world 

Is always going wrong ; 
Within his heart there is no hope. 

Upon his lips no song ; 
And as he gropes his weary way 

A- chewing that old rag. 
His only music is his jaw, 

Forever on the wag. 

There goes a man, a pompous man, 

A man of mighty mien. 
Who every year in Washington 

In Congress halls is seen ; 
And buncombe speeches oft he makes. 

But sure it is the swag 
For "influence" that keeps his jaw 

Forever on the wag. 



78 



THE CASE OF JOB. 

My friend, you should perambulate 

The history of Job, 
And into his afflictions sore 

With searching optics probe. 

How Satan rockefelled his wealth, 

Bereft him of his kin. 
And tortured him with foul disease, 

From liver to his skin. 

Three comforters came from afar. 

And sat for seven days 
In silent, sympathetic grief — 

For this let's give them praise. 

But then they all engaged in talk. 

Till talk to speeches ran. 
And speeches into arguments — 

The purest fustian. 

Poor Job, his case was hard indeed. 

No man such woes e'er bore. 
Yet mid it all he proved himself 

Religious to the core. 

How did it happen, do you ask? 

I speak not as a wag ; 
Mid all his woes his dear good wife 

Was never known to nag. 

'Tis true in one outburst of love, 
She said, "Curse God, and die"; 

But in his mighty swarm of griefs. 
This was the one small fly. 

OLD FATHER TIME. 

Is there no power to stop the course 

Of good old Father Time, 
Some subtle scheme by wit or force 

To lengthen manhood's prime ? 

Could we not break his old hour glass, 

Or, possibly, his leg. 
And thus delay him till he has 

Secured a wooden peg ? 

Could we not steal his scythe some dar. 

Or scare him with a bluff. 
Or work him in some other way, 

And head the old man off ? 



79 



COME, SWEET KARBINfGER. 

Bluebird, pretty bluebird. 

Sweet harbinger of springy. 
How we long and listen 

Again to hear you sing. 
Tho your song is simple, 

'Twill gladness to us bring. 

Bluebird, pretty bluebird. 

Come in your plumage blue ; 
Winter long has tinted 

Our nose this color too ; 
Oh, come and give the heavens 

The same celestial hue. 

Bluebird, pretty bluebird, 

The haughty little elf 
On the lap of Flora, 

Disports his ugly self ; 
Can't you come and lay him 

Upon his arctic shelf ? 

Bluebird, pretty bluebird, 
Come, catch the early worm ; 

Take him in and warm him. 

The blizzard makes him squirm ; 

Come, but let me warn you, — 

Don't bring the hook-worm germ. 

Bluebird, pretty bluebird, 

Oh, hasten to our clime ; 
On the gentle spring time, 

I want to make a rhyme ; 
If I'll promise not to, 

Will you come in quicker time ? 

J- J- 

In olden times we sang about 

Sweet Peggy and her low backed car, 

And how with arm about her waist. 
They sought the parson. Pap Mahar. 

Now when we take a little whirl, 

In swiftly flying auto'bile. 
We cannot hug the little gal — 

Our hands must tightly hold the wheel. 



80 



POPPING CORN. 

John and Jennie sit together 
In the firelight's warmth and glow, 

While old earth, from wintry weather. 
Warms herself with robes of snow. 

Jennie gets the iron kettle, 
And the corn begins to pop ; 

John's emotions will not settle. 
And his heart goes flip'ty flop. 

As the maid with nimble fingers 
Slowly shells the pearly corn, 

In John's heart a passion lingers, 
Waiting, struggling to be born. 

Jennie holds the lid down tightly. 
While the bursting corn grows light; 

Face of John becomes unsightly. 
Turning red, then turning white. 

Jennie finishes the popping 

In high culinary art ; 
Something keeps a highball hopping 

In the kettle of John's heart. 

Jennie lifts the kettle cover ; 

Still a few grains hop about ; 
Then the fire John's heart is over. 

Corn like, turns it inside out. 

John the question pops in sputters, 
That gives both a common fate ; 

Jennie then the popcorn butters, 
And they both eat from one plate. 

CHILDREN YET. 

As children we were told to seek 
The rainbow's golden treasure. 

And now, with wrinkles on the cheek. 
Fakes mock us at their pleasure. 

They tell us of great fortunes made. 
In stock and bond and mortgage ; 

Our hard-earned cash is freely paid. 
And what we get is — shortage. 

The most of us are children yet. 
Just grown a little bigger ; 

We swarm the traps by schemers set. 
And pull the little trigger. 



THE PREACHERS HAVE COME TO 
TOWN. 

Alack ! alack ! how the hens do cack ! 

The preachers have come to town ; 
The hens ran away — it will take all day 

For the host to run them down. 

Alack ! alack ! how the hens do cack ! 

The host has an axe in hand, 
And while he commits the murderous deed 

The preacher by his clothes doth stand. 

Alack ! alack ! how lips do smack ! 

As he tears the fowl limb from limb ; 
Yellow leg, black leg, white leg, all. 

It matters not a whit to him. 

Alack ! alack ! when they go back 
To their disappointments again, 

What will the poor Chanute people do 
For rooster, or chicken, or hen. 

HOW ABOUT IT? 

Turn the old mule out to grass ; 
He is spavined, blind and old ; 
Days of usefulness, alas. 

Now are nearly told. 

Seldom was he known to shirk 

Burdens he was forced to bear ; 
Now because of faithful work 
He has food and care. 

Let the gospel veteran 

Live on doles — that is the rule. 
Tell me, brothers, is not man 
Better than a mule ? 



82 



THE BAKER RUBAIYAT. 

Read at the Founders' and Benefactors' Day Celebration 

given in honor of the Class of 1866, Centenary 

Hall, Baldwin, Kansas, February 12, 1904. 

Hero, awake, who wrought the sovereign will, 
And at whose word the sun of heaven stood still, 

For one brief moment leave the silent tomb — 
Thy long, long resting place on Gaash hill ; 

And on some modern Gibeon take thy stand, 
And give again the impei-ial command 

That shall prolong life's fast declining day, 
Ere night shall bear us to an unknown land. 

The mighty warrior heeds us not, nor hears ; 
And ever and forever fills our ears 

The tickling of the horologue of time — 
The doleful knell of the departing years. 

Since then we cannot bribe the fore-locked sire, 
Nor kindle once again youth's lambent fire. 

Let us bow down at Memory's sacred shrine, 
And dreams of early days again inspire. 

'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, 
Some bard hath said. Do you believe it true ? 
Perhaps the raindrops in the weeping eyes 
To distant scenes impart the rainbow hue. 

The snows leave traces on our comelier parts. 
And if some flakes should drop upon our hearts. 

Let love divine forever burning there. 
Dissolve them ere the winter time departs. 

The chilling winter of life's discontent 
Will linger long because of time misspent ; 

Fill days w'th labor and the nights with song, 
And spring will hasten with its ravishment. 

Darkness is but the counterpart of sin ; 

All days are bright when there is light within ; 

If heaven shall luminate our path, no gloom 
Shall frighten when we near the grass-thatched inn. 



83 



Facing the east to see life's morning star. 

We hailed the light that cheered us from afar ; 

Let us have no less joy when it declines 
Behind the west's cloud-girt horizon bar. 

I come not here to honor with my lays. 
And call the past the only golden days ; 

Why call them gold when none was in the purse — 
'Twas long before the specie-payment craze. 

Nor did the greenbacks grow upon the trees ; 

At least not where we gathered them with ease ; 

We earned shinplasters doing sundry jobs, 
To buy a cracker or a crumb of cheese. 

Ah, many an eye to tears would quickly melt. 
If you could know the hunger that we felt — 

The thirst for knowledge and for other things, 
Such things as fill the region neath the belt. 

With one hand we plucked honors from the moon ; 
No honors from our fancy were immune ; 

While with the other twice or thrice a day. 
We ate our hodgepodge with a pewter spoon. 

We might have hitched our wagons to the stars, 
And made attempts to signal fiery Mars, 

And failing, fearing Jove's terrific frown. 
We let old earth still bump our humble cars. 

'Twas not amiss that homely hempen clothes 
Enveloped forms whose cheeks vied with the rose ; 

'Twas not amiss that sons of honest toil 
Beshrewed the brain that settles in the toes. 

Cosmopolite we were at school and bat ; 
Distinctions fine obtained not thru cravat. 
Or cut of jib, or patent leather shoes ; 
No Senior ever donned a stove-pipe hat. 

No victims from the sporting fields we bore, 
In ambulances, foul with mud and gore ; 

The only games of peril that we played 
Were those which left net hearts, but shin-bones sore. 

In many branches we did passing well. 
While we were trained in learning's Citadel ;— 
Like one of old with all our wealth of lore, 
One thing, alas, we lacked — the college yell. 



O sad that in those halcyon days should come 
The bugle note of war, the roll of drum, 

To call the noblest, bravest boys away 
To battle front and marches wearisome. 

They left us in the buoyancy of youth 
To strike for liberty, for God and truth ; 

And some returned no more, but bravely fell, 
Facing the serried ranks and cannon's mouth. 

We would entwine a wreath for them today ; — 
A wreath of roses mingled with the bay ; 

The rose to symbolize the blood they shed. 
The laurel leaves the honors we would pay. 

As toward the past the eyes of memory range, 
We see thru all the element of change ; 

In halls and under trees to us unknown 
There look upon us faces new and strange. 

And yet the same old sun shone then as now ; 

The same sweet birds sang on the woodland bough ; 

The same stars glorified the midnight sky ; 
The same soft breezes kissed the maiden's brow. 

The same old seasons slowly came and went, 
Bringing their days of joy or discontent ; 

Life's calendar retains the bright days still ; 
The gloomy ones we put in banishment. 

Beneath the same old moon brightly serene, 
That made earth sparkle like a silvery sheen. 

The same old sleigh filled up with boys and girls, 
Would make the same old tumble-out careen. 

While night dews nestled in the tulips rare, 
The same old vows were breathed upon the air ; 

Sometimes the girl fell in your arms as now ; 
Sometimes she gave the same old stony stare. 

The teacher watched us with the same off eye ; 
The love-lorn maiden heaved the same old sigh ; 

The same old pony trotted round the ring ; 
The lazy student told the same old lie. 

The rolling ball no question makes of punts 

As here and there the player strikes and grunts ; 

But lynx-eyed captains watching down the line 
See every kicker who performs his stunts. 



85 



students ! discard the horse — 'tis only shame ! 
His jog is easy, but 'twill make you lame ; 

And after many years will show the halting gait 
That hinders ascent of the hill of fame. 

'Twas Baker gave the word, co-educate, 
Among the first in country and in state ; 

Well she maintained the cause, statistics show 
Her theory still is — wed soon or late. 

For Cupid's smile is just as gay and bland ; 
He draws his bow with just as firm a hand ; 

It needs no confirmation to declare 
He's doing business at the same old stand. 

As we still wander in dim memory's halls, 
Voice after voice, familiar to us, calls ; 

And when we know they'll greet us nevermore, 
A tearful sadness on the spirit falls. 

How hung we on the lip so eloquent 
Of him our first and honored president ; 
O may his saintly spirit linger still. 
And find in student hearts embodiment. 

The sorry efforts in the next one's rule 

To cut the course from college to high school, 

P'ailed signally. The man possessed the heart 
To do the act, but had too dull a tool. 

The next to come was good old Dr. Locke, 
Who suffered from neuralgia by the clock ; 

Denial of poor Baker, not his Lord, 
Too soon was signaled by the crowing cock. 

Alas for him who like a meteor shone 

In wondrous brilliance in our college zone. 

And dimmed the very stars, and made the night 
Grow darked when the blinding light was gone. 

In those dark days that followed rapidly 
The ship of Baker had a stormy sea ; 

And captain after captain seized the helm — 
Rice, Simpson, McNutt, Hartford, Weatherby. 

The threatening waves subsided to a gale. 
When slowly down the presidential scale 

Ran Denison and Sweet and Gobin true ; — 
And piping times came with the notes of Quayle. 



86 



And next a Hoosier threw upon the wall 
A shadow short,— but later growing tall ; 

In schemes surprising, subtle, deep and large— 
Now, who but he had planned this festival ? 

All honor to the self-forgetting band 

Who with a faith that sees the unseen scanned 

This field so rich in promise, and with tears 
And supplications labored, dreamed and planned. 

A host as years roll onward shall attest 

And from the north and south, the east and west. 

The brave adventure of the heroes old 
\Mio, dying, left their love with their bequest. 

The Past salutes the Present here tonight ! 
Three links— two, rusty— bear a little light 
To mingle with the incandescent glow 
Before the candles are forgotten quite. 

The class of '66— they led the way, 

And yet no honors at their feet we lay ; 

Some fell behind, the slowly jogged along, 
And answered roll call on Commencement day. 

A class of only three ; the years disclose 
No answer to the riddle I propose : 

Why was there not another maiden fair ? 
Well, possibly the sphinx of Egypt knows. 

But just one girl ! So ill the fates prepare 
Mortal adjustments ! If each Romeo swear 

By the pale moon he loved the lassie well— 
O sorry answer to the tangled prayer ! 

Why did she marry HIM ? His visage scan ! 
•Tis strange, but beauty weds the uglier man ; 

Had fair Apollo been a cornfield fright. 
He would have caught fair Daphne ere she ran. 

And this I know : If Cupid hurl a dart 
'Tis better far upon the victim's part 

To go not scathless from the arrow's flight. 
With envious chance to gibe the winning heart. 

But all things come, 'tis said, to those who wait 
So, borne on wings that flutter into Fate, 

One day a swallow flew beneath my eaves— 
And other riddles bother me of late. 



What boots the labor ? Tears may come and go, 
Like the swift phantoms moving in the show. 

They gave old Omar his immortal song 
In praise of wine — the sole escape from woe, 

i 
He knew naught of the bird with tireless wing 

That to our spirits holy raptures bring ; 

Nor of its flight from earth's depressing snows 

To lands that bloom in everlasting spring. 

Say not to us: "Turn down the empty glass !" 
For soul of man this were a doleful mass ! 

'Twas only written of a lump of clay 
That it should sleep beneath a mound of grass. 

Thru the cathedral windows of the west 
Flows hither light from islands of the Blest ; 

And in the tent that shelters us awhile. 
We dream of Home — and, dreaming, are at rest. 




88 



Rhythmic Studies of the Word 

By J. M. Cavaness, Chanute, Kansas - - - Price 75c Net 

A handsome volume issued by the press of Jennings & 
Graham, Cincinnati. We give below a few of the very 
many commendations that have been received by the 
author: 

After spending one evening with Rhythmic Studies 
of the Word, I love everybody better, especially my 
wife, my home and my God. — Hon, Hugh P. Farrelly, 
Lawyer, Ex- State Senator. 

I was much struck with the faithful presentation of 
the real spirit of the parts of the Bible treated, and with 
the music of the verse itself. The book is a real inspi- 
ration and guide. May you give us many others. — Frank 
Strong, Chancellor of Kansas University. 

Your book is a wonderfully interesting and unique 
application of poetry to the study of spiritual things. 
It shows thought, labor and a fine conception of the 
spiritual ideas involved. — Hon. Geo. W. Martin, Secre- 
tary of Kansas State Historical Society. 

It is a fit work of a follower of Wesley, and in its 
best parts not unworthy of Wesley. Not a few of 
your Rhythmic Studies are calculated to make good 
hymns, and choir leaders will so use them. The tech- 
nic of your versification is excellent. — W. H. Carruth, 
Ph. D., German and Literature, Kansas State University 

Here is keen spiritual insight and lofty vision. Here 
are steps that lead upwards to God and Heaven. May 
this book find its way into many a home to cheer and 
refresh the life, and give new zest to the study of the 
Book of Books. — Rev. J. W. Mahood, D. D., Evangelist. 

Your very prettily bound volume of poems was read 
with pleasure. I am grateful for anything that tends 
to tie us back to the reverent things of life, and am 
old-fashioned enough to still find delight and blessing 
in the "deep, hidden things" revealed only thru The 
Word. — Mrs. Margaret Hill McCarter, author of The 
Price of the Prairie, etc. 

One of the most gifted men of letters in Kansas is 
J. M. Cavaness, whose inspired verses have received 
much wider publicity than their author's name. Sev- 
eral volumes of his poems have been published and 
widely sold. Another volume is just out, being a series 
3f contemplations of Bible passages, the deeper signifi- 
cance of which is brought out in song. — Ft. Scott Tri- 
bune. 



WAY 26 1913 



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